


Time Loves You

by engagemythrusters



Series: Time Loves You [1]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: (sorry), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, COE Fix-it, Immortal Ianto Jones, M/M, Miracle Day, Temporary Amnesia, There's a happy ending!, Time Vortex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 02:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18326456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engagemythrusters/pseuds/engagemythrusters
Summary: Ianto Jones died in Thames House. He doesn't remember this. He doesn't remember anything.





	Time Loves You

There is a gradual sort of waking. A quiet, blissful opening of the eyes to the eternity around him, like waking up with the morning sun on a cool summer’s day. Not that he ever got to do that much in his life. But that doesn’t matter now. What matters is the expanse that surrounds him.

He knows this place. He’s never been here, at least not while he was alive. But there’s a familiarity that courses through him, an understanding of where he is and why it’s there. It’s a vortex of its own, empty and foreboding, yet welcoming and loving at the same time. Humbling.

Ianto Jones is drifting, staring into the vastness of time.

And Time is staring back at him.

He doesn’t quite understand why. He closed his eyes in Thames House, and he knew everything was going to end. Or it should have. It doesn’t make sense to him.

When the music begins to play, it does.

It’s not like any other music he’s ever heard; this isn’t a melody suspended alluringly across the strings of a violin. This is not a tune warbled lovingly by the perfect set of vocal chords. It’s not the mellow sound of a horn, nor the chilling vibe of a harp, nor the tender sensation of a guitar. It’s nothing like that. If he had to describe it as anything, it would be a nonsensical set of emotions that feels like music, thrown graciously into existence by Time itself. Time is singing for him.

He closes his eyes again and melts into it. He lets himself feel the whimsical ebb and flow of sentiment and sound. He cocoons himself in it. Loses himself to it. It’s the only thing that matters.

He’s there for eternity. From the start of everything to the last shred of existence. He _is_ eternity. It’s so long and so short, and all he can do is feel the music. He doesn’t mind. This is a place of dichotomies. This is beginning and the end, reality and fantasy. Life and death. And that’s so soothing and frightening at the same time.

In an instant, the music swells, and everything feels so _important_. He opens his eyes again.

She’s standing there, in the distance. He instantly remembers her from a small, but vital moment in his old life, and as a character in someone else’s life. But he doesn’t want to think about that someone else. He wants to think about her. Rose Tyler.

She is absolutely radiant. Her eyes are glowing, and there was a knowing smile on her lips. There is a soft light around her in the emptiness, and it’s growing more and more, both bigger and stronger, as she walks to him. No, she’s not walking. He would think of it as floating, but it’s not that, either. She’s approaching. That's all. Approaching.

When she speaks, it’s not coming from her. It’s emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once, and it’s terrifying and wonderful to behold.

_“Time loves you, Ianto Jones.”_

It doesn’t make sense, but he supposes that technically none of this should. But it also makes perfect sense, too. Time had pulled him out of his end, Time had placed him in the expanse, Time was singing for him. He doesn’t understand why. Maybe he doesn’t need to. But he asks her anyway.

She laughs, and it’s a kind of laugh that fills the entirety that surrounds him. It fills him with a warmth he almost shivers at. But it makes him understand. Time loves him because he loved Time. Time also loves him because he and Time share love for one crucial person. Time loves him because that person is Time, the same way Rose was Time and the Doctor is Time. The same way he, too, is Time.

Because Time is now searing through him; coursing through his veins and dancing in his mind. Time is a thousand kinds of pleasure and pain inside of him. He screams in joy and agony. He wants it to stop just as much as he wants it to keep going. And suddenly, but also very slowly, it does both.

It’s not good enough for him. Everything and nothing all at once is too much, and if he could just have someone else with him… if he could just stop being so utterly alone…

The music changes again, and he doubles over, curling up on himself. He aches everywhere, even in places that don’t physically exist. The raw emotion from the song is so plaintative and heartbreaking, and he knows why. A second figure is there, only it’s the same figure as Rose, but it also isn’t. She’s Tosh, and he’s Owen, and she’s Lisa. All at once. He lifts his chin, forcing himself to gaze into their glowing eyes and their brilliant smile, and everything and nothing are both okay again. He’s okay again.

As he tries to reach out for them, he finds he can’t. It hurts more than the music. But it’s fine, because they’re here, and they’re looking at him with so much adoration and intimacy that it makes it alright.

He thinks he can keep it this way. If he truly is Time, then couldn’t he have them? They exist in Time, and Time exists in him. But Tosh is sad, and Owen is sad, and Lisa is sad, and even Rose and the music are sad. He can’t keep them.

 _“You can’t pull them out of Time,”_ Rose tells him softly.

“But why?” It’s a childish question that slips from his lips, but he can’t help it.

Rose shakes her head forlornly. They have to live in their own Time, and he knows this. But it isn’t fair. He reaches out to Lisa again, pushing through the pain, because he loves her. He misses her so much, and he never got a proper goodbye. He doesn’t want to give her one now. She’s too far away, though, and he still can’t hold her. Undaunted, he tries again, and he succeeds. It hurts so much, but he enfolds himself around her tightly. She places her hand to his face, and it’s a touch that’s filled with such icy cold and blazing heat that he shudders; he presses his face deeper into her palm.

 _“Let go,”_ Lisa says, and so, too, do Tosh and Owen say along with her, _“Let go.”_

He still doesn’t want to. He can’t. He holds Tosh and Owen and Lisa tighter. Deep down, he realizes that he must do it, and it’s so painful and scary.

There’s a gentle hand on his shoulder.

 _“Let go,”_ Rose urges. She doesn’t just mean physically.

He does.

As Tosh and Owen and Lisa fade away, he sees a look of understanding from them. It’s filled with love and tenderness, and he knows it’s not the end. He’ll always love them; he’ll always have them. He isn’t sure he can cry in the vast mixture of actuality and nonexistence of the Vortex, but if he could, he would.

Rose Tyler envelops him in a tight embrace, and something about it tells him its not a comforting hug for his loss. It’s a preparatory hug; the kind of hug given when someone knows what’s ahead.

_“Remember, Ianto Jones. Time loves you.”_

And he finds himself screaming again as the Vortex lets go.

* * *

 

Jack is miserable, and that’s putting it lightly. Very lightly. He’s found himself thousands of new ways to die in the past eight months that even the Master couldn’t dream up. And, like always, none of them stick. He wishes they did.

Tonight is the same as any night. Jack’s trying to find himself at the bottom of a bottle, and he’s failing rather horribly at it. He didn’t used to drink. Well, he did, and in copious amounts, but he’d quit drinking. He’s started again now. Nothing left to _not_ drink about.

He’s also thrown himself at so many people in the past two months since he’s left Earth. He was too broken to do that before, and he’s too broken to quit now. So many nights are wasted, flailing amidst arms and legs and tentacles alike, trying to find something he knows he can’t replace. Or maybe he can. He can’t tell which is worse. It’s probably both.

There’s a woman in a scant orange dress staring at him across the bar. She’s giving him suggestive looks every time he glances over at her. Obviously, she’s not the only one in the bar doing so, but she’s the one he figures will be the most distracting to go to bed with. All those whiskers should do the trick. He beckons her over, thinking to himself _why the hell not?_ because it’s not like he’s staying on this godforsaken planet any longer. No time for her to get attached.

It’s not nearly as distracting as he’d hoped, which isn’t surprising. She was good, but she wasn’t what he was looking for. A part of him wished she was bad, just so that most of his night would be spent subtly teaching her how to do it properly. That way he’d wouldn’t be able to tell what he was missing.

Something strange did happen that night, though. Not sexually. It happened in the moments between one pleasurable experience and the next, and it nearly turned him off for the night. There wasn’t really any way to describe it other than a distinctly odd feeling, and it left him completely baffled. But then she tugged his head down by his hair and he thought nothing more about it.

The next morning, he packs his things and sets off again, still feeling enormously unsatisfied and thoroughly empty and dead inside. He just wishes he was the same outside as he was in.

* * *

 

Louise Bevan is walking to work when she sees the most peculiar thing happen. It’s nearly seven o’clock, and she’s almost late to the bank, so she’s in quite a bit of a rush. But not in so much of a rush that she can’t see the man appear from literally nowhere in front of her.

She blinks, thinking that she must have just missed him walking up to her or something, maybe disappearing behind some of the buzzing crowd, but even she can’t make herself believe that. No, she clearly saw him pop into existence right before her eyes, directly in front of the street five steps in front of her. He wasn’t there when she was making her way to cross the road, and then, very suddenly, he was.

So, she stops and stares.

He stares back at her, and the first thing she notices is that he’s looking terribly confused. The second is that he’s in a suit, which looks incredibly nice, if she does say so herself, but it’s matched with a pale shirt and she doesn’t think she likes that. It is certainly not his colour. Red, probably, but not that. And then she remembers that they’re staring at each other and he's just appeared from thin air. Which is absolutely fucking bonkers.

“Can I help you?” she asks, because she’s not quite sure what she’s supposed to ask someone who materialized on the pavement in front of her. She applauds herself inwardly for that, though, because she’s taking this considerably well.

He frowns, and it’s rather cute (ugh, _priorities_ , Louise). “I’m not sure.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t the answer she was expecting to hear. Most people normally just say ‘no’ and go about their business. Then again… appearing from nowhere. Not exactly normal.

He’s still looking very, very puzzled, though, and she feels the need to ask if he’s alright. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure,” he replies again, and his eyes start to dart around the crowds of bustling people around them.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Who are you?”

His eyes drag back from a passing elderly woman back to Louise’s own, and she notes that he looks very concerned now. “I’m not sure.”

That’s when she begins to worry. She wonders if he’s perhaps a nutter from some madhouse somewhere. And then she remembers hello, suit, and thinks that he’s probably _not_ from some madhouse, but rather some bloke headed to work and now needs a hospital or something. She immediately kicks herself mentally, because that’s honestly quite insensitive of her. She blames that ugly thought on her being a product of her time and then berates herself again for _that_ thought.

The slight panic in the man’s eyes brings her back to the topic at hand. “Look… I’m… I’m going to call you an ambulance, alright?”

The man nods, and he starts looking about the crowd again. She pulls out her mobile and calls for help. When she successfully has an ambulance on the way, she calls again to the bank, because lord knows she can’t help this poor man and go to work at the same time. Helping him was a bit more important than a day at work. Besides, she’s saved up some vacation time, and she just has to know why this guy just burst into being.

When the ambulance arrives, she finds herself unsure of what to say to the medics. How to tell people what she saw? They’d think _she_ was the one needing help. So, when they ask, ‘who’s this?’ and ‘what’s the problem,’ she thinks quick on her feet for the best explanation with the most generic name possible.

“David Evans. My boyfriend.” She allows herself a moment of silent horror, because ‘Evans’ was a bit too close to her own last name, and ‘David’ is her brother’s name. She quickly continues, “We were just walking, and then he looked over at me and he had no idea who he was or who I am.”

The man she’d dubbed ‘David’ looks curiously over to her before confirming with the medics that yes, that is indeed what happened.

It was a long day in the hospital as they run test after test on the man. She’s been sitting in the waiting room for hours (from seven in the morning until nine at night) before a doctor and ‘David’ appear. She puts the magazine she’s not actually reading down and waits patiently as the doctor explains that ‘David’ has recovered his memories and should be good to go. Looking abruptly to the man, she sees in his pointed look that this isn’t the case.

“Medically speaking,” the doctor says, “he’s perfectly healthy. And I do mean _perfect_ ; he’s the textbook example of health, which is… bizarre, in my medical expertise. But, as that’s no grounds to keep him here… you’re both free to go.”

The doctor claps ‘David’ on the back and leaves. ‘David’ puts his hands in his pockets and looks expectantly at her, and she finds herself panicking slightly because the hell if she knows what to do with an amnesiac who appeared from out of the blue.

“So…” she says, frowning. “I take it you don’t actually remember?”

‘David’ shrugs. “Nope.”

“Then why’d you tell them that?” she asks. “They could help you.”

“The same reason you told them I was your boyfriend, I’d expect,” he says matter-of-factly. “I didn’t know what would happen if I didn’t.”

“Sorry about the whole boyfriend thing, by the way. Had to think of something.”

He gives her a smirk. “That’s fine. You’re not my type, anyway.”

She stares at him for a second, entirely offended because she likes to think she looks perfectly fine, thank you very much. And then she realizes that he’s _joking_. In a strange, deadpan sort of way. It’s sort of funny.

“Huh,” is all she can respond. She then regards him carefully for a moment, trying to think of what to do with this man. “I take it you don’t have identification or anything.”

He feels around his pockets, most likely for a wallet, and then shakes his head. “Sorry, no.”

“That’s fine,” she says, even though a large amount of hope has just died inside her chest. “Besides, I’d hate to think what would happen if I told everyone your name was David Evans and then you pulled out a card that says something else entirely.”

“Right.”

“Your name wouldn’t happen to be David, anyway, would it?” She rolls her eyes at the cocked eyebrow he gives her. “I know you wouldn’t remember. I guess I’m just asking if it feels right.”

He seems to contemplate this. “No. No, I don’t believe my name is really David Evans.”

“Well, damn,” she says lightly, trying to add some of her own humour to the situation. “And there goes my hoping I was psychic or something.”

A half-smile forms on his face. “I’m sorry to disappoint.”

They stand in silence for a few minutes. Louise watches as the man glances about the hospital waiting room, as if looking for something. She begins to realize he’s got absolutely nothing; no memories, no known friends or family, no job, nothing. And then she decides she’s absolutely mental, because she’s just made up her mind that she can’t just leave this complete stranger like this.

“Come on,” she sighs, yanking a hand from his pocket and pulling him along with her.

“What are you doing?” God, the more things she realizes about the man makes her even more determined, especially when those realizations are things like ‘this guy has such a seductive voice’ and the likes.

“I’m taking you home,” she says.

“So you can have your wicked ways with an amnesiac? How cruel.” He follows her anyway, and this time she catches the dry tone. Another joke, then.

“Ha ha,” she says sarcastically, practically dragging him out of the hospital and to the main road.

She notes his gaze as she spends the next five minutes trying to hail a cab. It makes her slightly uncomfortable, because being stared at is never very fun. When she gets someone to finally notice her, she shoves him into the car and tells the driver her address. They’re silent for a good bit of the drive, and he’s still watching her.

“Why are you helping me?” he asks quietly.

“Well, I suppose I couldn’t just leave you there with nowhere to go and nothing to do, could I?” She pauses. Why exactly _is_ she helping him? It’s not because he’s alone. At least, not entirely. “… and I guess I want to know why you just appeared out of thin air.”

His eyes sharpen, and he frowns.

“You didn’t know you did that, did you?” she asks, reading his expression.

“No,” he says, and he finally peels his gaze away from her and stares out to the passing cars outside.

There’s another silence, but so many more questions are bubbling up inside her now. “What’s it like, then?”

“What?” He turns back to her.

“Not remembering.” It’s kind of a stupid question--scratch that, it’s a _very_ stupid question, but she wants to know. “You went from not existing to existing right in front of me. What’s that like?"

“Oh.” He considers it. “It’s odd, really. I know things. Basic, everyday things, and the things you learn in school. I know lots of those things. Except anything personal. I can tell you the best way to make a cup of coffee, but I can’t tell you my mum’s name. Or if I had a mum. Logically, I know I had to… but there’s nothing there.” His face is impassive now. “Maybe you should just let me go now, then. I can’t give you what you want to know.”

He might not be able to tell her why he appeared from nowhere, but… well, she’s committed to this now, for some idiotic reason. “No, I’ll still help. You might start remembering things, and then you’ll be able to tell me.” She says it in a lightly and gives him a smile that she doesn’t exactly feel.

“Thank you.” His tone is very honest and sincere, and she finds herself blushing a bit at the intensity of the thanks as well as his look.

“You’re welcome.” She turns to look out her own window.

Another quietness follows. She begins to get distracted by the buildings and houses and cars that fly past. He breaks the silence and her concentration first.

“I suppose I aught to tell you something, then,” he says, and she whips her head around, mildly alarmed. “I think… there’s one thing I do know about myself.”

“What’s that?” she asks cautiously.

Part of her hopes it’s something that can identify the man, so that she can hand him over to someone who can do something for him. Another part hopes it’s something utterly useless, because as she realized before, she’s committed to this now. She realizes in that moment that he could be remembering something dangerous, too. Please, please don’t let him be a serial killer or something.

“I’m looking for someone.”

She waits, but he doesn’t say anything to follow it up, so that must have been it. “Oh.”

They arrive at her house, and she pays the cab fare because ‘David’ has no wallet, and therefore no money. He protests slightly as she bustles him out of the car and to her house. She unlocks the door and flicks on the lights.

“Right,” she says, setting her purse and keys down on the kitchen bar. She gestures about her. “Make yourself at home!”

He’s standing in the door awkwardly, and at her request, he takes off his nice shoes and slowly follows her into the kitchen. This is when she notes that this man is rather awkward and shy by nature, and that makes her smile a bit. It’s kind of a sweet look for the tall, attractive man.

It occurs to her that he probably hasn’t eaten the whole day. She went to the hospital cafeteria during lunch, but they’d been running tests on him the entire time. And as he popped out of nowhere, he probably hadn’t eaten before that, either. He doesn’t ask for anything, though, and that’s no doubt due to this reserved nature of his that she's just discovered.

“Food?” she asks, opening the fridge.

“Only if you’re willing to share.”

“Of course, I am!” she scoffs. “Let you into my house, didn’t I? Not gonna starve you.”

Instead of waiting for his response, she dove down to look in the fridge. She remembered with a stifled groan that she was supposed to go get groceries today; her fridge was looking rather bare. She pulled out the pizza she’d eaten yesterday.

“Leftover pizza,” she says, opening and placing the box on the kitchen bar. “That alright?”

“I do like pizza,” he replies, sitting down on a stool and taking a slice. He pulls a face. “Not a fan of mushrooms.”

“Don’t you want it reheated?” she asks. He shakes his head. She pulls out a plate from a cabinet, puts two slices on said plate, and sticks it in the microwave. “Wait, hang on! You remembered something!”

He shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve forgotten what I like and don’t like. Or what I can or can’t do.”

“Ah,” she says, because she doesn’t have anything else to say about that. “So… you’re looking for someone?”

He pauses chewing his pizza, looking up at her. He frowns and finishes off his bite. “Yeah.”

“Do you know who?”

“No.” He took another bite, and she waits patiently until he swallows. “All I know is exactly that; I’m looking for somebody. I don’t know who they are or what they mean to me or why I’m looking. It’s just a feeling. A gut instinct, if you will.”

“I see,” she says, even though she doesn’t. “Are you going to look for them?”

He tilts his head ever so slightly as he ponders that. “I don’t think so. There’s no point in looking for someone if I don’t know who they are. I wouldn’t even know them if I saw them.”

“So, what are you going to do in the meantime?” she asks. She then hurries to add, “You’re entirely welcome to stay here.”

“Are you sure?” He seems uncertain, and there’s a hint of authentic concern in there. But not concern for him, she notes. It’s concern for her. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“No intrusion,” she says. “I’ve got the space. How good are you at cleaning?”

“Very good, I think, but--”

“Perfect. I could use some help cleaning.”

“You don’t even know me,” he points out.

“ _You_ don’t even know you,” she counters. “Where else would you go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, there you have it, then.” She smiles. “As long as you’re not a criminal or just a generally bad person--”

“I’m not,” he interrupts hastily.

“Then it’s settled! You’re staying here. As long as you need.”

He doesn’t seem too comfortable with her insistence, but in the end, he reluctantly concedes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Besides, you wouldn’t be doing it for free. Like I said, I need help cleaning.”

“I’m paying you back by cleaning?” he asks, sounding skeptical.

“Yeah. There’s a lot of stuff I’ve got in storage that needs to be moved here and a lot of stuff here that needs to be moved into storage.”

He seems confused by that, but he doesn’t comment on it. They finish their pizza quietly, which seems to be the default setting. It’s only slightly awkward, but that’s because they’re complete strangers who don’t know anything about each other, and in his case, themselves.

“Tour of the house,” she says as she drops her place in the sink. “This the kitchen and dining room, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeats dryly with a small smile.

She wrinkles her nose playfully at him and has to try surprisingly hard not to stick her tongue out. What is she, three? Get it together, Louise.

“That’s the living room,” she says, pointing over the bar. “And there’s a small foyer on the other side of the hall from the kitchen, right where you first enter the house. Used to be a toilet, but it was remodeled before I moved in.”

“Should I move my shoes in there?” he asks.

“That’d be great,” she says. She doesn’t mind that he put his shoes in front of the door; it was rather considerate of him to take them off.

The foyer’s full of boxes and stuff, but there’s still some room for coats and boots and other such things. She moves some old trainers to the side, and he puts his shoes in their place. She smiles, and then beckons for him to follow her up the stairs, and he does, albeit hesitantly. _He’s so adorably awkward,_ she thinks as she leads him up the steps and into the cramped hallway on the next floor.

“Right, this is my bedroom,” she says, tapping the door in the center. She gestures to her right and then to her left. “Bathroom, and second bedroom. There’s a laundry room that’s connected to the second bedroom.” She pushes open the door to the bedroom, flipping on the light switch and grimacing at the boxes lining the wall. “Yeah, so there’s a bunch of junk in here, but the bed’s made. There’s clothes in the closet that might fit you.”

“Whose are they?” he asks, peering into the room.

Oh. Right. Here it goes.

“My brother’s,” she confesses, chewing on her lip uneasily.

“Wouldn’t he be upset that I’m using his things?” he asks.

“Can’t be. He’s dead.” It’s a bit blunt, but she’s afraid she might cry if she paints it all rosy and pretty for him.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” He puts a hand on her shoulder and pats. It’s as awkward as he is, but his face seems to have a genuine apologetic look. “Do you want to talk about it? I know I’m a stranger and all…”

“No, no. It’s fine. I would, actually,” she sighs. She’s not lying; she would really like to talk about it with someone who didn’t already have their opinions on his death. And he seems to be truly sympathetic, which is nice. “He died about eight months ago, in London. Had an important meeting there, or something. They never told me what happened. Made it seem like it was a car crash, but they never… outright said. This is his house. He left it to me. He was a good big brother.” She cuts off there, because she’s going to end up sobbing otherwise.

“What was his name?” he asks gently.

“David.”

“Ah,” he says. “Did you name me after him?”

“Might’ve done. I dunno, I just had to think of something fast.” She shrugs, still trying to keep it together.

“You can have it back,” he says, then blinks. “The name, I mean. I don’t have to keep it. You could call me something else, if it bothers you.”

“No, it doesn’t bother me,” she assures him. “I don’t mind. Really. It’s a bit nice, calling someone else as David without immediately thinking of him. You can use it, if you want it.”

“I think I’ll keep it, then,” he says. “Especially if it helps you.”

“Alright, then.”

“…and what’s yours?”

“What’s my what?” she asks, perplexed.

“Name.”

“Oh!” she gasps and claps a hand to her mouth, realizing she’d never once given him her name in the entire thirteen or so hours they’d known each other. She’d offered to let him _stay in her house_ before she’d told him her name. How foolish of her. “It’s Louise. Louise Bevan.”

He nods, then pauses, staring amusedly at her. She’s about to ask why before she realizes he’s just linked the Bevan/Evans coincidence. She finds herself blushing slightly.

“Like I said, I had to think of your name fast,” she mumbles.

He cocks an eyebrow good-naturedly but says nothing on the matter. Instead, he sticks out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Bevan, I’m David Evans.”

“Likewise,” she says, taking David’s hand and still blushing. “And please call me Louise.”

“Noted,” he says kindly. “Do you mind if I use your shower?”

“That’s what it’s there for,” she says, and it’s a bit caustic, because she’s still a bit peeved at herself and this incredibly striking man for her shortsightedness with names. She opens the linen closet between the two bedrooms and hands him a towel. “There. That’s yours. Use it. There should be an unused toothbrush in the cabinet in the bathroom. You’re welcome to it.”

“Thank you.” She waves him off, but he stops her. “I mean it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He showers quickly. Almost too quickly, in her opinion, and it makes her self-conscious when she occupies the bathroom after him, because she’s rather fond of long, hot showers. They say a brief goodnight in when they collide in the hallway afterwards. He forgot to brush his teeth, and she just got out of the shower. She again holds back tears when she sees him in the old, faded U2 shirt and pyjama bottoms that her brother used to wear.

In the morning, she calls the bank again and informs them she has the flu, and will be gone today again, so sorry. She’ll be back on Monday, though, not to worry! And then she hangs up and walks downstairs to find David making coffee. She finds she’s not mad that he’s dug through her cupboards, especially not when he’s making her some wonderful-smelling coffee.

He’s wearing some of her brother’s clothes, and she’s also not upset about that, either. Not in the way she was last night. They fit him just fine, though the shirt’s a bit long. David (her David, that is) was a tall man. This David looks rather sweet in faded denim jeans and a white t-shirt. It’s not the same handsome look he had yesterday in his suit, but it’s equally as attractive.

“You have the flu?” he asks. He gestures to the mug he’s filling with coffee. “Milk or sugar?”

“Splash of milk, please,” she says. “And I don’t have the flu. Just needed today to get you settled in today. And eavesdropping is rude.”

“You should go in to work,” he says, ignoring her last statement and handing her a mug. “It’s Friday. You’ll have the whole weekend to get me ‘settled in.’ No need to skip work on my behalf.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’d rather not leave you hanging alone for a whole day with nothing to do. I’ve got lots of days off saved up, anyway,” she tells him, taking a sip of coffee. “Damn!”

“What?” he asks, concerned. “That bad?”

“No, that good!” she coos, wrapping her hands around the mug and holding it to her chest appreciatively. “How do you make such good coffee?”

A small smile plays on his lips. “I try my best.”

They finish the breakfast he prepared for them, making idle comments about how they slept and the weather and groceries in between the silence.

“Right,” she says when she drains the last drops of coffee from her cup and pushes back her empty plate. “Today’s the day where we figure out who you are, David Evans.”

He raises his eyebrows. “A challenge, if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Indeed,” she says, and then scowls. “ _Have_ you ever heard a challenge?”

He smiles again, but this time it’s more of a smirk. “Well, I was just born yesterday.”

She snorts. “I guess if you want to think of it that way…”

“But, logically, yes; I’ve probably heard a challenge before. Unless I actually _was_ born into existence yesterday right in front of your eyes.”

“That doesn’t sound possible,” she says, shaking her head.

“Neither does appearing from thin air,” he points out.

“I suppose not…” She thinks about it. “But you did say you were looking for someone. That implies some sort of existence beforehand, right? You can’t start looking for someone without deciding you need to do it.”

“Unless that’s exactly what I was made to do,” he says with a shrug. “Some higher being gave me that specific purpose and willed me into existence, or something.”

Louise considers this for the briefest of moments before feeling the beginnings of an existential crisis creeping up on her.

“Well, I think that’s enough on that subject,” he says briskly, reading her face.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Too brainy for a Friday morning.”

“So,” he says slowly, watching her.

“So,” she repeats, and she studies him back. “Do you know your age?”

“Not a clue.”

“Hm.” She gets off her stool and takes a step back from the kitchen bar to get a good look at him. “Well, your baby-face doesn’t help much--”

“Hey!” he protests.

“--but I’d say you’re roughly my age,” she finishes. “So… twenty-seven? Give or take a year?”

“Twenty-seven sounds good to me,” he says.

They begin to make a list of the things they know (or can make educated guesses) about David. The list starts out really long at first, filled with likes, dislikes, abilities, and other things like that. It gets too tedious after a while, though, and so they decide to scrap that list and start over. On the second list, they don’t put any trivial things down, just the solid facts. The list ends up very short and reads as such:

Things We Know About David:

  * He is looking for someone



It’s rather dismal list, in Louise’s opinion. She finds it altogether depressing that that’s the only thing they can come up with as a true fact for David. He doesn’t seem to be too put out by it, though, and they move on to other things.

“What do you want to do for a job?” she asks, flicking the pencil around the bar. He grabs it as it begins to roll off the opposite end and refuses to hand it back when she reaches out for it. He sticks it back in the mug serving as a pencil holder on the far end of the bar.

“I’m not sure,” he says as he picks up the sad list and pins it to the fridge with a magnet.

“Well, go back through the things you like,” she urges.

“Coffee, books, math, science, suits,” he lists, counting them on his fingers. “Organization, pizza--”

She stops him before he can continue. “Okay, that’s way too general. Think more… I dunno. Just think less broadly. And more along the lines of job things.”

He rolls his eyes and begins again. “Coffee--no, I’m _not_ taking that off the list, don’t look at me like that--cataloging, researching. I suppose helping people could go on there.”

“How about you work in a bookstore? Or a library?” she asks.

He thinks about it for a second before nodding, seemingly content. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Oh!” she exclaims, remembering something “There’s a coffee shop down the road from here.”

“You could have led with that.”

“I didn’t think of it until now,” she says.

“What’s the best fit? Bookstore, library, or coffee shop?” he asked.

“Don’t ask me,” she says, holding up her hands. “I only know you about as much as you do. Why not apply to all of them?”

“I suppose I could. Problem is, I have no references or experience,” he explains, and she curses herself for not thinking of that sooner.

“Well…” she says, wracking her brain for a solution. “… you could always use my brother as a reference. He was an independent real estate agent, and he’s dead now, so there’s no way he can deny you working for him.”

David shakes his head. “A few things. One, David Bevan hiring David Evans? A bit odd. And adding to that is reason number two, I’m now apparently living in his house with his sister, who claims to be my girlfriend. That seems a bit fishy. And three, there’s definitely ways they can prove I didn’t work for him. No legal paper trail tying me to him.”

“Fine, fine,” she grumbles. “We do this one of the hard ways.”

“And what are those?” he asks.

“One,” she begins, parroting him, “we just send you in with no references, experience, or formal education. Or two, we plant false information.”

He eyes her doubtfully. “And you know how to do that?”

“No, but I know someone who does,” she says.

He cocks an eyebrow, either impressed or completely _not_ impressed. She can’t tell which. She’s finding him very hard to read.

“Hang on a second,” he says abruptly. Now she can say with absolute certainty that he looks shocked. “I think _I_ know how to do that.”

“Really?” Louise is as surprised as he is by this revelation.

“Yeah, I think so.” David frowns. He looks completely bewildered. “I think I’m pretty decent with that sort of thing. Spreading false information. Manipulating things with a computer.”

“Christ,” she says, for lack of anything better to say. “Maybe you should go into software design.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. He appears almost disconcerted now. “I might be good, but… I think there was someone better than me.”

“Obviously. There’s always going to be someone better than you. That’s how life works.” And then she pauses as she realizes what he said. “Wait. Are you remembering something?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe?”

“Should I put that on the list?”

“What, ‘good, but not as good with technology as someone else?’”

“Well, when you put it like that…” She folds her arms. “Okay. So, if you can make yourself a false paper trail… then we don’t have much to worry about, then, do we?” When he assents, she continues. “I’m going out now. Grocery shopping and the works. You’re coming, too. We can stop at places you might want to apply to. And we can get you some new clothes. Alright?”

“Sounds fine to me.”

After finding David a coat that isn’t a leather jacket (her David loved them, this David does not), they set out on their journey. They hail another cab and are off on their way.

“I do have a car,” she feels the need to explain. “It’s just getting repaired.”

They spend the day at various stores buying clothes for David. He tries to shy away from everything, claiming he ‘doesn’t want to waste her money.’ She rolls her eyes at this and informs him that she’s doing just fine for herself, thank you very much. She’s an accountant at a bank and she’s received plenty of money as her brother’s sole inheritor. He allows her to buy him a few suits after she practically yells this to him.

Arms strung with bags, filled with vegetables and ties alike, they briefly tour through a library, three bookstores, and two coffee shops. David decides they all need his help. Louise thinks they’re all decently run and organized, but he apparently sees something she does not. She jokes they should add high-strung to the short ‘Things We Know About David’ list. He gives her a playful shove, and she’s happier than she’s been in the past eight months.

* * *

 

Jack is miserable, and it’s been nine months now. Not that time matters. ‘Time heals all wounds’ is a lie. He’s going to have literally forever for it to heal, and he can say for certain that he won’t. Sure, maybe in five billion years he won’t remember a single thing about any of this (he’s not sure how long memories will last before his brain gets too crammed and pushes things out), but he’ll still be broken and full of pain. He knows this; it is a fact of his life. His wrong, immortal life.

“Where are you going?” the Soongan asks sleepily from the bed as Jack pulls on his boots.

Jack doesn’t answer him. He just pulls on his greatcoat and tries not to think about all those times when he’d had a devout pair of hands help slip his coat over his shoulders. He then slinks out of the room, out of the hotel, and out into Soong, where the night skies are red and purple hues that make his heart ache.

He wasn’t sure if he was past tears yet. Every time he thought he’d run out of tears and sank into numbness, he finds himself days later sobbing into a pitiful bottle of Scotch, or whichever drink is similar to it on whatever planet or ship he’s staying on. He hasn’t opened himself to hyper vodka yet. He’s afraid he’ll somehow find himself happy if he does. And he doesn’t deserve happiness. Not when the last things and people that have made him happy are gone.

Strolling down the streets, he realizes it’s nearing the midnight curfew on the planet. The last crowd of people is bustling about, trying to get home on time. Soon there will only be a few stragglers left on the streets with him; those that are too drunk or high, those who don’t have anywhere to go, and those who don’t care. He finds himself to be member of all three categories, and he lets out a scornful laugh to himself. Citizens turn their pale faces and yellow eyes to stare at him, and then quickly pull their gazes away, muttering to themselves about ‘what a mess this man is.’ He doesn’t care.

Curfew comes, and the streets are vacant. The addicts, the lost, and the apathetic may all still be out and about, but they’re not stupid enough to let themselves get caught roaming in the streets. Jack, who is all of those things, doesn’t give a damn about getting caught. He’s not a coward like they are. He stares at the three pale moons at varying degrees on the horizon and curses them all.

It’s a wonder he’s not found sooner by the police. He’s right out in the open, yelling obscenities to the universe. He’s not exactly hiding, like the rest of the fools who live in the violet and crimson nights. Maybe that’s why they didn’t find him; they weren’t expecting someone to be so idiotic as to stand out on the street. It doesn’t make any difference to him how fast or slow they catch him, though. Not much matters to Jack anymore.

When they cuff him, he lets them. They read him his rights as a foreign traveller, but he’s not listening. He’s watching those moons and that sky, and realizing that in this moment, he’s not numb. In this moment, he has tears left to cry. He lets them slide down his face as he stares blankly out into the night. The sky mocks him.

Purple shirt.

Red tie.

He doesn’t think of the colors that come after those. Not the pale shirt and the striped blue tie. Not the red body bag. He can’t think of those. That hurts too much.

Jack spends the night in jail, and he couldn’t care less. One place is the same as any other place. Sure, that’s not logically correct, but he’s too defeated to think of any real differences. If there’s a place to lie down, it’s the same as the last place to him. Everything else is superfluous, and therefore irrelevant. Unless it’s booze or people. There are no drinks or one-night stands in Soongan jail, but there is a floor and a guard at the door, so it’s the same as the hotel (somewhere to lay with a Soongan present).

In the morning, they let him go. He’s tempted to just not move from the cell, but they drag him out and shove him into the blindingly sunny morning. He immediately goes and looks for an open bar. There is none. He then decides this planet is backwards and takes the next ship leaving. It docks with another ship a while later and he moves to that one just because he can.

He spends a few nights moving from cabin to cabin. They’re all the same to him. A place to lay down, with the ship’s equivalent of Scotch and a fling lying next to him. It’s all the same. Night after night, he drinks, has sex, and ‘sleeps.’ It’s mainly just closing his eyes and letting the nightmares roll in; he can’t sleep anymore.

The only person he could sleep with is gone.

* * *

 

Louise Bevan is finding that life is getting better for her. She hadn’t realized until now how gloomy it had been before. Yeah, she knew it sucked for a while after her brother had died, but she didn’t think it was that bad until now.

It’s been a month since David popped out of nowhere, and it’s going great. He works at Cardiff Central Library and he wears suits every day. The latter isn’t important, but it’s just so funny to her. David often rolls his eyes and says it’s important to dress well, but she just thinks he’s a bit cocky. She loves him for it.

He quickly became her best friend in the past month. She supposes it has something to do with proximity; they live together and see each other all the time, so they like each other’s company. In other words, they’re close because they’re close. She doesn’t pretend to know the psychology behind it, but that’s what she gathers.

They go out on a date once. They go to a fancy French restaurant and everything. He wears a suit, of course, but she makes the effort to go one step above her usual formal clothes that she wears to work. She dons a blue dress that shows a good bit of cleavage. They go and eat, and it’s nice, but it’s not right.

“It’s just…” she tries to find the right words to describe how she’s feeling as they hold hands on their way out of the restaurant.

“Like I’m your brother?” he suggests, and she nods anxiously. “Don’t worry. It’s kind of like you’re my sister. I don’t think this is going to work.”

“Oh, thank god,” she sighs, exhaling the breath she’s been holding in the entire evening.

“You don’t have to sound so relieved,” he says, but it’s with a small smile.

When they hold hands after that, it’s entirely platonic and feels right. She tells him she cares about him constantly, because she does, but that, too, is platonic. He accepts the endearment graciously every time, and he knows exactly what she means by it, but he doesn’t say any of it back. He shows his affection in his reserved ways, but he never says it. She thinks he has a problem with saying how he feels. Or maybe it’s just he, like most men, doesn’t connect with his feelings. Those thoughts only bother her slightly.

David didn’t lie; he’s wonderful at cleaning and organizing. She figures this out as soon as she finally finds the courage to start moving her brother’s things out and her own things in. He has an order to doing things that she admires greatly. No wonder he’s a librarian. She lets him keep some of her brother David’s clothes, and he only takes a few things.

It’s then that she starts to wonder if she’s using him as a replacement brother.

That thought worries her for a bit. She spends a week tossing and turning in bed, haunted by the thought that she’s moving on too fast from losing her own David, and that she’s using the new David in his stead. A rebound David. It’s after he gives her a stern talking-to about the proper use of a coffee machine that she realizes that, sure, he’s helping her move on and she accidentally gave him the same name as her departed brother, but the two are nothing alike and the relationships she shared with either of them are also different.

Nearing the end of the month, when all of the boxes are gone from the foyer and David’s bedroom, a routine settles in. David wakes up at five-thirty on the dot every morning and showers. He starts making breakfast and coffee while Louise wakes and showers at six. They eat together and decide what they’re going to do for dinner. If David gets done first that day, he cooks. If Louise gets home first, she cooks. Most of the time they don’t end up cooking. They really just take turns getting takeaway. After dinner, they either hang out, playing stupid board games or watching movies and documentaries, or they get work done for the next day.

The majority of arguments are over cleaning. Her approach to cleaning is ‘do it when it feels messy enough,’ while his seems to be ‘clean everything all the time.’ It’s sort of frustrating to have him clean sometimes, because sometimes he’s cleaning the bathroom and he won’t let her in, or he’s washing the dishes and won’t let her grab a plate until he’s finished the round. He tells her its equally annoying that she doesn’t clean her hair out of the drains often enough, and that her method of doing the laundry is absolutely atrocious. The squabbles usually end in her calling him a neat-freak and him returning the jibe as slob, and they go to bed fuming and then wake up the next morning nodding to each other as a form of apologizing. Only once has David been so mad that he’s given her instant coffee, and only once has Louise been so mad that she dumps a cup of coffee directly into the sink. Both of those things were apparently equally offensive to each other. She just wishes that those instances happened at the same time, so that she wouldn’t have had to taste disgusting instant coffee. He’s managed to turn her into quite the coffee snob.

There has been no addition to the ‘Things We Know About David’ list, but a new list has been made alongside it. They call it the ‘The Person David Is Looking For’ list, and it looks something like:

The Person David Is Looking For:

  * He is a man



This came about one day for seemingly no reason. David is cleaning Louise’s hair out of the bathroom sink (don’t ask her how it got there; she doesn’t know), when he suddenly walks downstairs to the living room where she’s reading, holding a disturbing glob of her hair in one gloved hand and with a faintly wild look on his face.

“It’s a man,” he announces.

“Who is?” she asks, gawping at the nasty tangle of wet hair he’s carrying.

“The person I’m looking for,” he says. “He’s a man.”

It takes a second to settle into her brain, because she’s quite frankly still disgusted by the hair clump. “Okay, that’s grea--Oh! Oh my god! You remembered something!”

He looks mildly troubled by it all for some reason, but he sits on the stool next to her as they draw up the second list. They’re both too distracted to remember the hair in his hands.

“This look good?” she asks, showing him the newly-formed list.

He shrugs. “It’ll do.”

“’It’ll do?’” she repeats. “I’d like to think it’s a bit better than that, thank you!”

“It’s only got one point on it, how’s that good?” he asks. “In fact, the only lists I’ve seen you make have only one thing on them!”

“Well, that’s hardly _my_ fault, now, is it?”

He rolls his eyes at her, and she sticks her tongue out as she makes her way to the fridge to place it next to the other list. She uses a red a magnet that reminds her of David’s favourite colour. For luck.

“Well,” she says, all traces of merriment replaced by earnestness, “we’re getting somewhere. Not sure where, but we’re getting there.”

Giving a self-deprecating snort, he rolls his eyes again. “I’ve remembered two things in the past month, and neither of them are actually about _me_.”

“It’s only been a month,” she says calmly. “I’m sure more things will come.”

“A name would be nice,” he says, still unconvinced. “His or mine. I don’t care. Just as long as I can find someone to help me figure this out.”

She’s hurt by that statement, because she’s doing everything in her power to help him. He notices and, in that awkward way he has of consoling her, he pats her shoulder gently.

“I appreciate that you’re doing your best,” he says. “I just meant I wish I had someone who could tell me the answers.”

“I know,” she says. Then she wrinkles her nose in revulsion. “Ewww, you were holding hair with those hands.”

David looks down at his hands, and she’s relieved for a second that it is the hand that’s not on her shoulder that’s holding the wet mass of hair. But then she remembers they were both in the sink and is disgusted again.

“It’s your hair,” he reminds her.

“I know that!” she cries as he throws the hair in the bin. “It’s still gross, though. Stop rolling your eyes at me!”

He smirks and turns away, heading back up the stairs to get back to cleaning the bathroom. She scrubs her arms extra hard in the shower to wash off any unpleasant sink germs and attempts to keep her hair from swirling into the drain. She tells that last part proudly to David.

“Maybe I should have terrorized you with clogged hair earlier,” he muses.

She’s not that proud after that.

They celebrate the one-month anniversary of David’s existence on the date a month later. They’ve finally agreed that he was made into being on that day, because it’s far more hilarious to think that. They don’t actually believe it, even though neither of them says it. She keeps it to herself because it’s nicer to have a laugh than an existential crisis, and she’s sure he says nothing because it makes it less complicated to live life. It’s easier to live an unknown life with merely a future ahead than it is to live an unknown life with the idea of a missing past.

Toasting to his future, she drinks her wine and tries to imagine her life as an amnesiac, and she finds that she can’t. How can she imagine herself not knowing herself? She doesn’t know what she’d be like if she wasn’t her. She realizes quickly after that dizzying thought that she’s probably drunk. He calls her a lightweight as he plays with his barely-touched glass and she calls him an alcoholic while she takes a large guzzle of wine. He promptly sends her to bed afterwards.

* * *

 

Jack is miserable because it’s been a year. One year. He wishes now more than ever to die permanently.

He spends the entire day in his quarters on the large cargo ship that he’s currently travelling in. He drinks at least five entire bottles of Scotch. It’s real Scotch, because it’s being exported by an alien settlement on Earth. He laughs hysterically when he realizes this. If he was back on Earth, it would be his job to take them down. But he’s not on Earth, he’s on a damn freighter in space, full of a spirit that he misses.

It’s not the only spirit he misses.

He’s pretty sure he dies of alcohol poisoning four times. 

The next morning, he wakes and notes the true genius of it the alien settlement on Earth. The aliens on Earth have a taken advantage of a whole market of drinks that the galaxy has yet to be formally introduced to. They’ve harnessed one of the three constants of the universe: alcohol, sex, and love. He isn’t sure why the settlement is so ingrained into his brain until he thinks of that last bit. Because of those three constants, there’s one that he can’t have. He can drink as much liquor or spirits as he pleases, he can have as much sex with as many creatures as he so chooses, but the only thing that Captain Jack Harkness cannot have is love.

He can’t remember what happens the for the rest of that day.

On the second day after the day that marks a year, he packs his things and transfers to another ship. He nicks a few bottles of the Scotch on the way, throwing them into his bag for a rainy day. Once he’s registered onto the new ship, he dumps his bag in his room and promptly goes off in search of the bar in absolutely no hopes of a good time.

And, just like always, the Doctor shows up at the completely wrong time. Of course. For once, though, Jack couldn’t be bothered to truly care. Not in the way he used to, anyway. Now he just talks to this Alonso because he’s got nothing else to do, and not because the Doctor says to. He begs the heavens that Alonso offers some sort of distraction from the hell he’s been in for the past few days. Lord knows he needs it.

* * *

 

There is a moment where David becomes complacent with his name.

Part of him is okay being David Evans, the amnesiac librarian who makes damn good coffee. He’s fine with never finding the man he’s looking for, and he’s content to just live with Louise for the rest of whatever life he’s got. It’s mainly because he’s terrified that he’s going to find who he ‘really’ is and this life of his won’t matter. But the other part is equally terrified that he won’t ever find the man, and he’ll be stuck forever, not knowing even his real name, because he knows he’s not David, he’s supposed to be someone else entirely.

 In any case, he’s just afraid of being David-not-David, and he tries to tell Louise this.

“Perhaps you should have just called me Gareth,” he reflects as he begins to prepare the coffee.

She doesn’t look like she’s heard a single thing he said. Her fingers are playing with her bottom lip distractedly, and she’s staring off into nothing.

“Louise?” he asks.

She blinks up at him, dropping the hand from her face to the counter. “Sorry?”

He puts down the bag of coffee beans and plants his elbows on the kitchen bar, leaning in to match her slumped height. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” she says, and then shakes her head. “Well, no, it’s not nothing. It’s just…” She sighs heavily and sinks even lower on her stool. “Today’s been a year since David died.”

Oh.

He should know this. It means it’s been two months since he… began existing. “I’m sorry.”

She waves it off, but he knows she’s having a rough time with it. He’s learned to read people easily (although he’s not sure if he’s developed this skill in the past months or if it was from… before), but Louise radiates her emotions like a nuclear plant. Oof. Not his best analogy.

“I suppose it was a bit rude of me to complain about the name David, then, wasn’t it?” he asks, patting her hand kindly. He then regrets his choice of words and wishes he was better with tact.

“That’s… not what’s bothering me,” she says, as if he could not be denser. And that’s not entirely wrong.

“I know,” he says. “Tell you what. We’re going to go to work, and then we’re going to come home, and then we’re going to take a drive to the cemetery, alright?”

She nods, and that seems to be the most she can manage to do. He wants to call in a sick day on her behalf, but he knows she’d just get mad about it later. She doesn’t like anyone doing things for her; she doesn’t like to seem weak. He wonders if she was like that before her brother’s death.

Work is work that day, just like any other day, but it’s paired with those same thoughts he had that morning. Yes, work helps a bit. Systematically organizing things is heroin for him. Okay, maybe not _that_ extreme, but it does feel wonderful. And it distracts him enough to get through the day.

As soon as Louise gets home, David whisks her back out of the door. He hands her the box of Chinese he picked up on his way back and orders her to eat it. She does as she’s bid, but she doesn’t eat much. She mainly pokes the food around and every once and a while takes an actual bite. He can’t blame her. He doesn’t know if he’s ever faced a loss like she has, but he’s sure he would be as broken up about it as she is now.

They take their time wandering through the cemetery. He thinks she’s stalling, but he doesn’t say anything about it. They pass by tombstone after tombstone, and he mentally reads the names to himself. One or two of them have nice little phrases on them that he likes. As they walk past one that says, ‘Beloved uncle and brother,’ he finds himself wishing he has familial ties like that. When he dies, there will be no family to collect him. Only Louise. He hopes he doesn’t have to put her through that any time soon.

But there’s’ another thing that the gravestone leaves with him. A distinct tingling in his skull is the best way he can word it. It’s like a word that’s stuck on the tip of his tongue, but he’s wracked his brains and he can’t find said word. No matter how hard he tries.

He didn’t realize he’s stopped, standing in front of the grave, until she reached out and took his hand. As she pulls him gently along, he notes how often she does this sort of thing. She seems to be a tactile person; always touching him all the time. He’s not at all a touchy person, but he appears to take it rather well, which shocks him. It’s almost as if he’s used to someone having their hands all over him all the time. He chalks it up to a holdover from his past life, even if he refuses to admit he has one out loud. The niggling in the back of his mind doesn’t let up.

“Friend of yours?” she asks about the grave, even though they both know the poor soul couldn’t be.

He peers back over his shoulder back at the tombstone, but he can’t read it any more. He thinks back to the name, but he was so busy reading the words beneath that he didn’t catch the name. It starts with an ‘I,’ and that’s the best he can remember.

“No,” he says as they continue to trudge along.

They lay flowers (gladiolus and pink carnations; their meanings seem appropriate) at David Bevan’s grave, and he thinks again to himself about who he is versus who the man six feet below him was. He decides that he’s not going to give up on himself. Whatever that means. ‘Himself.’ It’s a word normally taken for granted, but as an amnesiac, he can certainly say it’s a loaded word.

As frustrating as it is to not remember more about himself in the four months he’s been with Louise, he almost wishes that he could stay in the dark about the next thing he learns for a little bit longer.

It’s a month after the one-year mark of real David’s death. A month after they laid flowers on the grave. She’s still a bit depressed and sometimes tetchy. He’s just trying to do his best for her. Needless to say, the week isn’t going well.

Standing in the kitchen peeling carrots (she yells at him to have more vegetables in his diet), he notes a lot of yelling coming from outside. He puts down the vegetable peeler and carrot, and he makes his way outside.

There are kids playing in the streets. It’s Saturday, so he’s not surprised that they’re not at school, but he _is_ surprised that they’re playing outside. Aren’t children these days supposed to be obsessed with their electronics? He stands in the doorway and watches them play their game of football in the street, musing about childhoods and his own missing one.

Eventually, one of the kids kicks the ball too far, and it rolls up to the steps of the house. He picks it up, and the kids yell for the ball back. He deliberates punting it back. He doesn’t have memories of playing football, but he’s sure he can do it. At least mediocrely. In the end, he settles for walking it back, not wishing to make a fool of himself in front of the rag-tag group of children with ages ranging from what looks like five to early teens.

He doesn’t even know what hits him. In hindsight, it’s obviously a car, but in that moment, he just finds himself in a world of pain and then… nothing. Absolutely nothing.

In that nothingness, he’s sure he remembers who he is.

However, in some strange twist of fate, he doesn’t stay in the nothingness. In fact, he comes right back. And god, does it _hurt_. It felt like… being pulled over broken glass, or dragging himself across hot coals, or drowning himself in freezing water. He can’t scream, though. He wants to; it hurts so much. But instead, he finds himself gasping for air. And once he starts gasping for air, he can’t stop.

“David!” a watery voice yells at him. Louise.

He can’t stop wheezing, and he’s pretty sure he’s hyperventilating at this point.

“Breathe, David,” Louise instructs. “Breathe!”

He can see her now. She’s kneeling above him, meaning he’s laying down. When did that happen? His proprioception must be off. Sensation other than pain is coming back to him, and he can start to feel the road beneath him. There’s a pebble digging into his spine. He exhales deeply from his nose to stop the cycle of gasping.

“That’s it, breathe,” she murmurs, and he can see the tears running down her cheeks.

“What happened?” he croaks, but he already knows.

“You were…” She shakes her head, and more tears pour out on her confused face. “You were _dead_ , David. Dead!”

“Well, I’m not now, am I?” he asks, trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t work, because she’s crying harder now.

The children have gathered around him and are peering down at him with all sorts of baffled expressions. The five-year-old kneels down next to Louise and leans in very, very close to David’s face.

“Are you a ghost?” the little boy asks bluntly, his nose practically touching David’s.

“Not that I’m aware of,” he replies, looking into the deep brown eyes that are staring curiously into his own.

“A zombie?” the boy asks, and this time his tone is more inquisitive and excited.

“No, I don’t think so,” he says. The little boy pulls back with a huff of disappointment. He chuckles and sits up.

“I’ve called an ambulance!” a strong masculine voice cries out. David turns over his left shoulder to see a man waving his mobile as he walks back to the throng of people surrounding David. The man stops, gawking as he drops the mobile. It clatters to the pavement. “What in God’s name…”

“Looks like you didn’t do any lasting damage,” David says.

He’s not sure why he feels the need to cover up his own death and apparent resurrection. Well, other than the fact that this just doesn’t happen to people. Ever. And he feels fine.

“But you… you died!” the man sputters.

“Not from where I’m sitting.” He starts to stand and finds himself a bit wobbly. Louise catches him before he can fall over and helps him up. “See? All fine. Just a bit banged up. Nothing to worry about.”

Louise tightens her grip on his arm, but she says nothing.

“I…” the man’s mouth moves an awful lot like a fish’s.

“Next time be more careful when you’re driving through an area with children,” David rebukes the man, lightly tugging his arm from Louise’s grasp. He can stand on his own, although he’s not sure about walking yet. Sure enough, as he turns to walk back to the house, he stumbles, and Louise grabs him again.

They leave the man and children to their awe and befuddlement. Louise is just as shaky as David is as they walk into the house, and he remembers a thought from the graveyard a week ago. The thought about how he needs to not die yet so that he doesn’t put her through another death. Well… looks like he failed that.

Because he’s certain he died. He knows it. Louise confirms this as they sit on the sofa in the living room, Louise curled up in a ball next to him and clutching his hand desperately. For some reason, death makes sense. And so does coming back to life. Which should make absolutely no sense, because it’s not something people normally do. But this just causes the niggling in his brain to increase. It grows and grows until something breaks through.

It stuns him for a moment; both the revelation and the revelation itself. He’s surprised to actually remember something, and even more surprised that what he remembers is… _that_.

“Louise,” he says slowly, so as to not alarm her.

“Huh?” She peeps up at him with wide and still tearful eyes.

“There’s something you should know,” he says, measuring his words carefully.

She blinks. “What?”

“I can’t die.”

There’s a moment of pause as she digests the words.

“…what do you mean?” she asks, and her voice is so quiet and low he can hardly hear her.

“Exactly what I said,” he says. “I can’t die.”

“…oh…”

He can’t tell if she believes him or not. He asks her.

“Well,” she says, her brows furrowed in contemplation. “You _did_ just die and come back… and you _did_ appear from literally nowhere when I first met you… god, this is absolutely bonkers, but I believe you. I can’t believe I believe you. Jesus Christ. This is insane.”

Listening to her ramble on about the lunacy of it all, he waits until she gets a grip on it. There’s a lot of silence in between her incoherent rants, but he lets her say all she needs to say in her own time

“Okay,” she says after nearly half an hour of babbling. “Okay… I think… I think I can actually get my head around it now. I mean, not really, but… I can accept it.”

She squints, eyeing him carefully. “You really don’t make sense, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he admits.

“It’s okay. I love you anyways.” She pats the hand she’s holding, and he squeezes her hand in return.

“That’s not all,” he says after another pause.

“Oh dear,” she says glumly, sinking into the sofa.

“I think the man I’m looking for… I think he can’t either.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, so he thinks she’s having another existential crisis. But when he looks over to her, she’s chewing her lip and staring at him, obviously deep in thought.

“That actually makes sense,” she says after a bit.

“It does?” This is news to him.

She sits up straight, still holding his hand. “Yeah. If you think about it.”

“Care to enlighten me?” he asks playfully. He’s completely serious, because he wants to know what she’s thinking, but he found out long ago that he’s can be a bit too facetious at times.

“Well,” she says, “if you can’t die, and he can’t die… maybe it’s why you’re looking for him.”

This had never occurred to him. He considers it briefly, but then shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh.” She sounds put out by this. “Why not?”

He shrugs. The niggling in his brain won’t let up, but it’s also not exactly being forthcoming.

Louise gets up off the sofa and makes for the kitchen

“Where are you going?” he asks, concerned he’s somehow offended her. It was all too possible that he was being tactless again.

“We’ve got to update your lists,” she says, yanking them from their magnets on the fridge. She waves them at him. “Come on, get in here!”

She has already begun to write on them by the time he sits down on a stool at the kitchen bar. She’s finished writing on the first list and is moving on to the next. He tries to take the finished list from her to see, but she holds it out of reach until she’s finished the other one, too.

“There!” she declares, sounding pleased with herself.

“Can I see them now?”

She slides the lists over to him. They now read:

Things We Know About David:

  * He is looking for someone
  * He is immortal



The Person David Is Looking For:

  * He is a man
  * He is also immortal



“Immortal?” he laughs.

“That’s what it means when someone can’t die!” she says defensively. “Don’t mock me!”

He waves it off. “No, no, I’m not. It’s… surprisingly accurate.” He reads the list again, and then frowns.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just… all of these things… they don’t have anything to do with me, do they?”

“Of course, they do!”

“No, they don’t.” He pokes at the ‘The Person David Is Looking For’ list. “They’re all about him. I can’t remember myself for shit, but apparently I can remember him.”

She reads both the lists. “You remembered you’re immortal and you’re looking for him,” she says kindly. “That’s about you, isn’t it?”

“That’s just it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I _didn’t_ remember that. That’s… new, somehow. Him being immortal and him being a man I _remember_. But I don’t think I started looking for him or being immortal until I… ‘existed.’”

Neither of them comment that it’s impossible for them to keep believing that he didn’t exist before he appeared in front of her. The tacit message has already been implied; they just don’t want to admit it. He assumes she doesn’t want to think of his life before her, and he himself doesn’t want to believe he’s forgotten everything. But with this new information… they have to.

“You’ll think of something more,” she says gently as she rehangs the lists.

He nods, because it’s the only thing he can do.

* * *

 

Louise Bevan is only slightly put out that she’s not getting any dates. She’s never been the one to fling herself at passing men, but she’s also been feeling a bit lonely lately. Well, as lonely as one can feel with a roommate like David.

Lots of it is her own fault, but she supposes some of her bad luck with dates can be attributed to him. It’s hard to catch the eye of other men when she admits to having a man live with her. She assures them all that it’s nothing romantic or anything. David’s just a friend! But none of them are ever interested in dealing with ‘just a friend,’ and so they move on after one date and a chaste kiss goodnight. It’s a bit disappointing, really.

It’s also disappointing to see David waste his obviously good looks. He hasn’t gone on a date since their own awkward one all those months ago. When she asks him about it, he always tells her it’s because he’s looking for that man, and he’s too busy to date. She doesn’t get it. He’s not actively out looking for the man at all. He claims this is because he probably wouldn’t be able to recognize him if he saw him. She thinks this is bullshit, because the man would certainly recognize David when they came across each other. She tells him this. That was back in October. It is now the day before the new year, and he still isn’t looking for anyone and he still won’t go on dates.

Something clicks (other than the clock) two minutes before midnight, and she gapes at him. He notices her staring, and he asks her what this is about. She doesn’t hear him at first, because they’re at a party at one of her friend’s house and the music is way too loud, and he yells it again.

“What?”

“You’re in love with him!” she cries over the thumping bass. Come on, they were almost thirty. Did they really need to party like they were back in uni?

He frowns bewilderedly at her.

“It’s why you won’t go on dates!” she yells. “You’re in love with the man you’re looking for!”

The frown slides off his face, and he puts on that impassive expression that she’s learned is a mask to hide whatever he’s feeling from both the world and himself. But he takes a drink of champagne from his flute and stares at her blankly, and she knows that she’s not going to get a response. She wonders if this is news to him, if it’s just occurred to him, or if this is something he’s known and won’t tell her. She knows better than to ask him.

When midnight comes, he presses a kiss to her cheek. He pulls back, and there’s such a sombre look in his eyes that it’s confirmation enough for her. He knew. And he’s lonely. And she doesn’t mention dating to him after that.

They wake up with hangovers the next morning, and she’s pretty sure she vomited last night, if the way her mouth tastes is any sort of proof. She groans and washes up, and then goes downstairs in her pyjamas. Thank god it’s both New Years and a Saturday.

David’s down there, in his own pyjamas and looking equally as unkempt and dishevelled, which pleases her to no end. If _he_ can look messy, then it’s entirely alright for her to be this disgusting. He’s making coffee, which is unsurprising. But what is surprising is the new addition to the ‘The Person David Is Looking For’ list. In her convoluted, drunken handwriting it says:

  * David loves him



There’s also an embarrassing trail of shapes that are probably supposed to be hearts.

If David sees it, he doesn’t comment on it. He simply hands her a mug of the delicious elixir that is his coffee and takes a drink from his own.

They never talk about that bullet point. Ever.

January passes into February before they know it. Her birthday is in February, but it’s never been a happy day for her. Everyone always forgot her birthday, and it’s just become a sad reminder of how small she is to the world. She begs David to not get her anything, but he does anyway. On February 12th, he comes home from work carrying a box. She sighs but opens it when he urges her to. There’s a set of books in there. One is a stupid self-help book that makes him grin when she laughs at it. The other is a book about France. When she asks about this, he shrugs and tells her that she can brush up on her knowledge of France before her trip there. That confuses her more, until he flat-out tells her that she’s taking a trip to Paris in two weekends time. She thanks him profusely, because she’s wanted a trip like this for a long time.

The rest of the night is spent huddled on the sofa under piles of blankets, eating pizza, drinking wine, and watching documentaries about space.

“I worked with aliens,” he remarks abruptly.

She stares at him for a second. “… what?”

“I worked with aliens,” he repeats. His serious tone makes her believe him. It’s not the weirdest thing she’s learned about him, after all.

“What kind of working with aliens?” she asks, because she’s not going to ask, ‘aliens exist?’ without having another existential crisis. “Like… the ‘I dissect little green men’ kind of working with aliens, or the ‘I fly a spaceship with little green men’ kind of working with aliens? Hold on, is that why you appeared in front of me? They beamed you down from whatever UFO you were working in?”

He rolls his eyes, which she thinks is unfair, because how should she know? “This isn’t Star Trek, Louise.”

“Right.” She refuses to let herself be embarrassed. “So, which is it, then?”

“I think…” He narrows his eyes, brows knit. “I think it was the dissecting kind. I can’t tell. It’s not an actual memory of it. It’s just a feeling.”

“Oh.”

She must admit, she’s a bit disappointed. One, it’s rude to dissect things. Two, it would have been super cool to be friends with someone who has alien friends. And three… well, it’s kind of sad that he doesn’t actually _remember_ remember these things.

But now his list looks like:

Things We Know About David:

  * He is looking for someone
  * He is immortal
  * He worked with aliens



“See!” she says excitedly. “I told you that you’d remember something about yourself. This one isn’t about him!”

Though he doesn’t say anything, his face is stony, leading her to believe that this did actually have something to do with the man he’s looking for. She doesn’t understand how, but she knows.

Two weekends later, he drops her off at the airport. She has a _lovely_ time in Paris. She also feels really, really lonely. She’s not often alone anymore. She starts to agonize about codependence, but then decides to ignore it. If it’s working, why fret? When he picks her up from the airport, she feels relieved.

* * *

 

Jack is miserable because he’s going back to Earth. It hasn’t been long enough; it’s only been one and a half years. And only roughly one year since he left Earth.

But he’s been hearing whispers. Small rumours here and there. Enough to make him worry and jump on the next freighter back in that direction.

“You know that’s an underdeveloped planet, right?” the captain asks gruffly. He’s roughly seven feet and three hundred pounds of raw muscle, and any other time, Jack would have been interested. That scaly skin of his would have been… fascinating, to say the least.

“I’m from there,” Jack says, and it’s a lie. Sure, he’s human (enough), but Jack’s not native to Earth. He’s thanked the heavens innumerably for that.

“Alright,” the captain says with a sigh. “We’re headed past the system in three days. We’re not stopping.”

“That’s fine. I’ve got this.” He taps the strap of his vortex manipulator.

The captain eyes it curiously with all eleven of his eyes. “What’s that?”

 “One of a kind,” Jack chuckles mirthlessly and heads off to the room he’s been allotted for his trip.

Three days. That’s not nearly enough time to kick his raging alcoholism that he’s been nursing for the past year or so. He’s got one bottle of that Scotch left, and he plans on downing that tonight. So, really, two days to go from liberal amounts of drinking to nothing. He’s going to have to go cold turkey, and it’s not going to be pleasant. He can do it, though. He’s proven it twice. Once when Alice was born (oh, god, _Alice_ ), and again when he took over from Alex Hopkins. Not that he’d ever drank this much before and had this much to quit from, but, hey, at least it’ll distract him from the pains of returning to that godless planet.

Four days later, and he’s on Earth, and those rumours are true. Something’s happening on Earth. And like always, it’s got to do with fucking Torchwood. He’s in the United States, and he prays that he doesn’t have to go anywhere else. No such luck.

All roads lead to Cardiff.

* * *

 

There is a brief second when David comes home from getting food when the house is quiet. It’s odd, because Louise was supposed to arrive first from her a doctor’s appointment. He sets the bags of takeaway on the bar and peers around for any sign of her.

“Sorry!” she exclaims as she bursts through the front door.

David watches as she kicks off her heels and practically throws them into the foyer. He bites his tongue so that he doesn’t say any scathing remarks that he may come to regret.

“I got held up,” she explains as she hangs her coat and purse. “Met a friend of mine on the walk back. You know, the one that works for the government. He had the _strangest_ story.”

“And what’s that?” he asks, handing her a glass of wine.

“There was an email sent out--oh, thanks, love--to his… well, y’know, he works for the government. Not exactly sure what he does, really. Think it’s got something to do with America,” she says. She sits down next to him at the bar, but she doesn’t touch her food yet. “But he was talking to me about how everyone got this email, but it only had one word. He went to look it up but _poof_! All the information on the word was gone. I told him it was probably a made-up word, and someone probably forwarded to everyone by mistake, but I don’t think he believed me.”

He’s mildly intrigued by this. “What was the word?”

“Torchwood.”

The niggling in the back of his brain got louder somehow, and it almost _hurt_.

“You alright?” she asks him.

“Yeah. It’s just… I know that word,” he says slowly.

She snorts. “I’m not surprised you do. They used to run about all over Cardiff. Every time there was some sort of spooky-do. Special ops, I think. Haven’t heard of them in over a year now, though.”

“No, I mean I _know_ that word,” he says.

The niggling sensation picks up even more and it’s so distracting. That’s what gives him the clue. If it only happens when there’s something he’s supposed to remember… well, if one plus one equals two, then two minus one equals one. He must have something to do with Torchwood.

“I think I had something to do with them,” he says.

The feeling goes away, but it’s not followed by the sense of relief that usually comes with remembering. It’s kind of like remembering the word that’s on the tip of the tongue, only to find the word doesn’t start with the letter that felt like it should. It’s anticlimactic and thoroughly disappointing. Maybe that wasn’t what he was supposed to remember.

“Oh,” is what Louise says before she pauses, stares, and then opens her mouth open in shock. “Does that mean that Torchwood was about _aliens_?”

Of course, that’s what her natural conclusion is. David chuckles and shrugs.

“That means there’s been aliens in Cardiff this entire time!” She puts a hand to her mouth. “Oh my lord… Aliens! In Cardiff!”

“You’d think I’d remember that,” he says dryly.

She’s still hung up on the idea of aliens in her city to scold him for his self-deprecating joke the way she usually would. “Jesus Christ. Wow. Wait, but if Torchwood’s been inactive lately does that mean the aliens have gone?”

“Not a clue,” he says, somewhat distractedly, because he’s just realizing that if he really did used to be in Torchwood, they could have helped him, but if they’re gone… no one can help.

“Christ,” she repeats, and takes a swig of wine.

He changes the topic to something he can handle. “Also, I’m still pretty sure your friends a spy.”

“Oh, not this again,” she moans, leaning forward and clonking her head onto the kitchen bar.

“I’m serious,” he says. He finally gets around to starting his meal. “The things you’ve told me…”

“His accent sounds genuine!” she cries. “He’s got a family here! I’ve met his mum!”

“Uh huh.”

“Stop it! He’s not an American spy!”

“He is. And he’s a really bad one.”

“Agh!” She flicks a pea at him.

“Hey!” he complains. “Remember who has to clean this place!”

The next morning is when they learn that no one has died in the past twenty-four hours. They’re both immediately suspicious, because that is literally unheard of. She says it’s got to do with that bloody Torchwood; finally reappearing, only to fuck up the world. He can’t help but agree, because it’s as good a hypothesis as any. A while later and the world’s in peril, but it’s got nothing to do with them. They’re both completely healthy. Part of David feels guilty for not _doing_ something. He’s not sure what he would be doing, but he still feels awful for not doing it. The other part is content to just leave it alone.

The only thing he notes is that he’s different, somehow. It starts with a paper cut at work, which he thinks nothing of until later that night doing dishes.

“I’ve got a cut,” he says, astounded.

“Put something on it,” she says. She does not sound at all interested.

“No, no, I’ve got a _cut_ ,” he repeats.

“What do you want, a gold star?” she asks, still not getting it.

He sighs. “I don’t _get_ cuts, Louise. When I do, they heal in seconds. I got this one this morning and it still hasn’t healed.”

She’s silent for a second. Then she snorts. “Typical.”

“What?”

“It takes you four months to realize you can’t die, and all that time you were getting cuts and bruises and scrapes and you didn’t think about how they were just disappearing on you?”

“Well--”

“If you blame it on popping into existence, I’m going to slap you,” she says warningly. “We both know damn well you know basic common sense.”

He shuts his mouth.

She puts down the towel she’s using to dry the dishes, and her face gets serious. “…do you think this--your not healing and all--has something to do with the whole not-dying thing?”

“Maybe,” he says. “It could be that it works the exact opposite for me. Nobody else can die, but I can.”

She gives him a look that makes him roll his eyes. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like I go out of my way to get myself killed, you know.”

“Maybe we should wrap you up in pillows, just in case,” she jokes, but its ruined by the panic in her eyes.

“I’ll be fine,” he reassures her again. “I’m not the person to get into trouble.” Niggling sensation. “…but he is…” Relief.

“Oh no,” she says softly.

“I’m sure he’ll be alright,” he says, more to himself than her.

“I’ll… just add that to the list,” she says quietly.

“Add what? That he’ll be okay?”

She doesn’t respond, pulling the list down to write on it. When she’s finished, he snatches the list from her.

The Person David Is Looking For:

  * He is a man
  * He is also immortal
  * David loves him
  * He is apparently an accident-prone idiot



It’s enough to break the tension, and they laugh as the world goes to shit around them.

* * *

 

Jack is miserable, but at least he can die now. After this is all over, he thinks he just might do that.

Of course, those kinds of plans don’t seem to ever work out for Jack, do they?

When it’s over, he goes to the graveyard. He can’t stand being there on the actual day, so he goes the evening before and he stands there. He brings a bottle of Scotch. He doesn’t drink it. He can’t. He lets it sit on the gravestone when he leaves in the morning.

Apparently, Rex is immortal now, as they learn during the oddest funeral Jack’s ever been to. Good for him. Jack tells him how much it sucks during a ‘how to be immortal’ talk that Gwen forces Jack to give the American.

He then leaves the planet again.

* * *

 

There is a tiring amount of dreadful songs on the radio as David and Louise drive to the store. She’s humming to the current song, and he’s trying to tune it out by counting every third building or house he sees.

They’re celebrating David’s ‘birthday.’ After careful deliberation, they’d decided that the best day to honour him was on the day he appeared in front of her. He’s turning ‘two’ now (or twenty-nine, by their actual guess). Last year, they’d sat inside and celebrated privately as the world fell to pieces around them, and this year, they’d been too busy on the actual date, and therefore made a raincheck for the next month. So now, June 24th, exactly one month later, they were going shopping for groceries as a birthday celebration. Okay, they were shopping for liquor, but still. Shopping. He supposed he didn’t really mind; he was as big on birthdays as she was. It’s hard to be excited about turning an age he’s not actually sure about on a day that’s most certainly not his real birthday. But it’s nice to spend a night just doing fun things solely for the sake of having fun, so he doesn’t complain.

The liquor store they chose is a bit farther away than the one they usually buy from, but according to Louise’s friend (who she still denies being an American spy to this day, even though he went missing after the whole ‘Miracle Day’ debacle), it’s got good stuff.

“To two years!” she says as she opens the doors to the store.

 “To two years,” he repeats as they walk inside.

Thinking about the past two years, he snorts quietly to himself when he thinks about them being the best two years of his life; they’re the only two years of his life that he can remember. And he hasn’t remembered a lot more in the past year. His lists now look like:

Things We Know About David:

  * He is looking for someone
  * He is immortal
  * He worked with aliens (Torchwood)
  * He has met the Queen and she liked him
  * He has seen a real, live ~~pterodactyl~~ (pteranodon!)



The Person David Is Looking For:

  * He is a man
  * He is also immortal
  * David loves him
  * He is apparently an accident-prone idiot
  * May be an alien?



It’s not much, but it’s a start. Or so Louise says.

“Hmm.” She puts her hands on her hips and peers about the store as he grabs a wire mesh basket to carry their finds in. “Where do we start?”

“Harder stuff first,” he says, and they move along the aisles.

“Vodka?” she asks as they pass some.

 “No.”

They keep looking. It feels like they’re out dress shopping or something. He wishes they’d just planned what they wanted beforehand, so they could get the drinks and go.

She stops abruptly and snickers. “Rum?”

“Not funny.” He glares at her.

“God, you were so drunk that night.”

“Shut up.”

“You know what I want?” she asks after a bit more walking.

“Some of that Scotch?”

“Yeah!”

On their visit to the real David’s grave last year, they’d found a bottle of untouched Scotch laying on top of a headstone (ironically, the one that he had read ‘Beloved uncle and brother’ from the year prior to that). He had insisted that they should leave it, because it was clearly meant as a tribute to the poor man. In the car ride back, he’d noticed that Louise had swiped it anyway, and saw no point in wasting it after that. And damn, was it good.

“Oh,” she says dejectedly when they look for it. “It’s not here.”

“Find something similar?” he suggests.

“Nah, let’s go cheap.” She throws a bottle into his basket. “More wine that way.”

“Alright.”

They make their way to the wine section and notice a man back there. He has a baby in a push chair with him.

“Aww, he brought his baby in for a drink. How nice!” she says mockingly.

“Maybe the baby had a bad day.”

She smirks. “I guess you’re not the only two-year old in here buying wine.”

As they approach, he can hear that the man is talking to the toddler as he browses through the red wines in front of him.

“--likes a decent red wine, she does. What do you think of this one, Anwen?” He turns to show the baby the wine, as if it could make a judgement, and they get a good look of the man’s face.

“Shit,” escapes through David’s lips. He ducks behind an aisle as the man looks around to see who swore.

“What’s wrong with you?” Louise asks, following him into the aisle.

“I know him,” he hisses.

“Meet him at the library?”

“No,” he says slowly. “I know that man. Or I did. I remember him from before.”

“Jesus Christ.”

The niggling sensation takes pity on him and lets him remember more. “I think… his name’s Rhys Williams. I don’t think I knew him well, but… yeah.”

“Wow,” she says. “And finding him here, of all places.”

“Suppose I had to run into someone I knew somewhere,” he reflects. “I just didn’t think I’d remember them when I saw them.”

“I’m glad you did,” she says. “That means when you find, you know, _him_ , you’ll be able to tell.”

This dawns on him. He can’t tell if he likes this new information or not.

“Do you know how you know him?” she asks.

“No. Still can’t truly remember him. Gut feeling and all.”

“Right.” She peeks out over the end of the aisle to look at Rhys Williams and the baby. She pulls back and turns to him. “Baby’s got to be new. Looks younger than two.”

The niggling sensation returns, and he wants to scream because it’s so frustrating. It seems to always show up and it never gives him answers. So, it’s no wonder that he’s entirely surprised when it relents a second time. He swears again.

“Language,” she chides.

“I remembered more,” he says in a low tone.

“Twice in one night?” she practically shrieks.

He shushes her. “You’re lucky we’re in a liquor store. Anywhere else and yelling _that_ out would be profane.”

“Sorry!” she mouths back in silence.

“I think… his wife. I knew her. She was like a sister, but not,” he says softly. “I don’t think she’s the only one like that. There were two others, but I think only one of them is my sister.”

“You’ve got a sister?” she asks, thankfully quiet this time.

“And apparently two others that I view the same way,” he says.

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” He notes the look on her face. “You’re like my sister, too.”

She positively beams at him.

“Oh, god,” he says, spinning on his heel to face the other way. “He’s coming this way. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Louise has other ideas. To David’s dismay, she goes and stands at the end of the aisle, watching him pass by. He quickly turns his face away as Rhys Williams passes by.

When he is gone, she returns to David.

“How come you didn’t let him see you?” she asks. “If his wife was as close to you as you say, then wouldn’t it help?”

He finds it hard to get the right words for what he wants to say. “I guess I’m just waiting for… _him_. If I’m going to remember… I don’t know, it’s silly.”

She pats his arm gently. It’s something she’s picked up from his own awkwardness. “I get it.”

They don’t linger at the store like she had planned for them to. They grab some wines, pay, and then drive home in silence.

At home, Louise pulls down the ‘Things We Know About David’ list and adds:

  * He knows Rhys Williams and his wife
  * He had three sister figures, including Rhys William’s wife



“At least now your list is longer than his,” she says kindly.

“Cheers,” he says, opening a bottle of wine.

* * *

 

Jack is miserable, and he’s headed back to Earth. Again. This time it’s not because of fucking Torchwood. It’s because Gwen doesn’t want to be alone when she goes back to the graveyard on the third year.

“You didn’t wait for me,” she had said to him before he’d left Earth the second time. “I had to go alone.”

He had reluctantly agreed to come back the next time to stand with her at the grave.

Now he’s on another freighter, and he’s not bothering to sober up this time. He’s going to be as drunk as humanly possible. It’s the only way he’s going to be able to keep it together while standing with someone else at the grave. In fact, he’s going to buy more Scotch, drink some, and then put it on the gravestone again (even though Gwen had also told him before he left that someone had stolen the Scotch by the time she’d gone to visit). Gwen’s going to be so mad when she sees him, but he’ll be too drunk to care. Besides, the day’s not about her. It’s not about Jack, either. It’s about being really broken and wholly fucked up.

The freighter will be arriving in the system in two days, which gives him some time to finish repairing his vortex manipulator. It’s failed four times in the past year. Once because he accidentally broke it one drunken night, twice because he accidentally used it wrong (don’t ask how, he doesn’t remember), and he doesn’t know about this last time. He thinks his last conquest slept on it, but he doesn’t have proof. That was a week ago, and he’s nearly done with the repairs. If he adjusts his drinking schedule… oh, who’s he kidding? He’s not going to change when and what he drinks. He’s just going to tipsily fiddle with it until it’s fixed. It’s what he’s been doing for the past week.

He goes to his cabin that night ready to drink hyper vodka (something he has since learned doesn’t make him as happy as he wants), but he finds himself crying instead. Three years later and he’s still bawling like a baby. He wonders if he’ll ever stop. The answer appears to be a resounding ‘no’ by the way he starts crying harder. He dumps all the alcohol he has down the drain and decides that he actually _is_ going to do this sober. He can’t keep bottling his emotions up, because it just hurts so much more when he releases them later.

Spending the remaining two days locked in his cabin and fixing his vortex manipulator, he considers staying on Earth after it’s all done. He doesn’t have to do anything there. Just live there for a bit. He thinks it would be nice to visit the grave every day. He also thinks it would incredibly depressing for him to do that, but he’s got nothing but time ahead of him to be happy. An eternity, in fact, so a hundred or so years of depression won’t kill him.

The night of the 23rd of September, he touches down on Earth where he’s promised he would meet them. They’re not there. Instead, Andy Davidson is there to give him a lift to their new house in Cardiff.

“Couldn’t stay away for long,” the way-too-chipper man remarks, and Jack’s not sure if Andy means him or Gwen and Rhys. He doesn’t ask.

Andy drops Jack off at the new house after a twenty-minute drive of nonstop chatter on his part. Jack doesn’t thank him.

Jack is eternally grateful when Gwen opens the door and eyes him warily instead of squealing cheerfully and hugging him like he feared she might. He’s not in the mood for cheer.

“Hide your alcohol,” is the only thing he says as he steps over the threshold into the house.

This earns him the typical Gwen Cooper ‘mother hen’ look, but he couldn’t be bothered by it. If she knew what he’s been through… He doesn’t tell her this, because he knows she would argue she’s lost the same people, too. But she hasn’t lost what he has. She got Rhys back when she lost him. Jack… Jack doesn’t get anyone back.

Gwen gives him a brief tour of the house. He sees Rhys in the kitchen and expects to toss about a few barbed comments with the man, but he just gives Jack an apologetic gaze. That alone almost makes Jack burst into tears, for some reason.

It’s a rather late dinner, but Rhys has cooked his ‘famous spag bol.’ It’s Jack’s first time trying it after four years when of it first being mentioned by Gwen. He likes it just fine. Gwen makes sure to pair it with tall glasses of water instead of the wine he knows she wants to serve.

They inform Jack at dinner that they can’t go in the morning to visit the grave, because they ‘have to go to work.’ They’ll have to go when they get back. In the meantime, Jack will be watching Anwen. This is said with heated glances between Gwen and Rhys, and he can tell they fought heavily about this. He suspects that Rhys wasn’t too pleased about being told Jack would be taking care of their child. Gwen tells him he could have met little Anwen again if she weren’t already in bed.

After Gwen finishes the obligatory catching-up (which mainly involved her asking him what he’s been doing and him answering with the vaguest manner he could; he didn’t want to admit he’s solely been drinking and travelling) and after Rhys has cleared the table, they bid each other goodnight and Jack goes straight to the guest bedroom. He knows he’s not going to sleep well because he’s just eaten, and he can’t sleep and digest at the same time, and also because he hasn’t slept well in three years unless he’s blackout drunk.

In the morning, he goes downstairs to find Gwen already gone and Rhys waiting with Anwen in his arms. Rhys tells Jack everything he should know about taking care of Anwen.

“--and sometimes she’s just yelling because she likes to yell, so you don’t have to feed her every time,” Rhys is saying.

“I have done this before, you know,” Jack tells him, although he knows the skeptical glare Rhys gives him is very much deserved.

“Right, then,” Rhys says, handing Jack Anwen and heading out. “I’ll be off. Call if you need anything.”

And with that, Jack is left in charge of a baby on the day he hates most in the world.

“Come on, little meatball,” he says to the burbling baby. “Uncle Jack’s taking care of you today. We can learn our alien ABC’s.”

He’s trying very hard not to think about the last person he taught those to, because that person is also gone; destroyed by Jack’s own doing. But that’s tomorrow’s problem, not today’s.

Jack and Anwen spend most of the time in the living room. Anwen has a tremendous deal of fun playing with his greatcoat for a good hour or so, and then they move on to reading books, and then it’s lunchtime. Afterwards she has a nap, and Jack finds himself lying flat on the floor of the living room while Anwen sleeps on his stomach. It is really uncomfortable. She wakes and goes back to playing with his coat. Jack finds the day almost bearable. Almost. He wonders if Gwen did this on purpose, so that he wouldn’t spend the entire day moping. He does anyway. Baby Anwen may be adorable and distracting, but nothing can truly dim what this day means.

Gwen and Rhys arrive at the same time. Rhys looks genuinely astonished to see both the house and Anwen in one piece. Any other day and Jack would have torn him to bits with a few well-placed jibes, but not today. Gwen tells him to go get changed, because they’re leaving soon. Jack tries to ignore the growing emotion that’s building in his chest, chiefly because he can’t figure out which emotion it is.

As he comes back out of the guest room wearing the nicest clothes he has, he stops and stares at Gwen, who is standing right in front of him. Black is the colour she normally wears, but now she’s wearing more formal clothes and she looks lovely.

“You look nice,” he informs her.

“Thanks,” she says, but her tone is flat. “I wore it to the funeral. You would have known if you came.”

That rips a hole right in his chest. She knows why he didn’t go. He couldn’t.

“Sorry,” she whispers, and he can only stare blankly in response.

They make their way downstairs. Gwen puts on a nice coat, and Rhys has managed to tear Jack’s own coat from a now squabbling Anwen. Rhys is giving him the same apologetic face as he did the night before, and he says nothing. Gwen gently tugs him out the door and to her car.

It is completely silent on the drive there. He’s thankful that Gwen isn’t her usual lachrymose self, because he knows he wouldn’t be able to handle it. He’s already barely handling it.

* * *

 

There is a quick slam of the car door as Louise gets into the car, and David jumps slightly. He hadn’t been expecting her so soon.

“Ready?” David asks her after she buckles herself in.

She nods.

“Maybe we should swing by the store on the way,” he suggests. “Put some Scotch on the grave of the poor bloke we stole it from last year.”

“No,” she says. “I want to get this over with. This day makes me so tired.”

“I know.”

“Just keep talking,” she says, slumping into her seat. “I don’t think I can stand the quiet any longer.”

“Okay.” Knowing any meaningful chatter is pointless, he asks, “What’s your favourite word?”

“Malevolent,” she says.

“Any particular reasons why?”

“Just like how it sounds. What’s yours?”

“Sesquipedalian.”

She gives a giggle.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing. It just sounds so… _cute_ when you say that.”

He rolls his eyes.

“What’s it mean, then?”

“It’s to describe polysyllabic words,” he explains. “It’s autological.”

“And _that_ means?”

“God, didn’t you go to school?” he taunts lightly, but he’s not entirely feeling the jocular mood and she’s not having it either. “It means a word that describes itself.”

“Got it.”

They continue the meaningless prattle for the rest of the ride. She gets more and more anxious as the drive goes on, and by the time he pulls over, they’re both relieved. They can quickly get this over with, go home, cry a lot (in Louise’s case), and go to bed.

“Ready?” he asks again, and again she nods, and they head off to David Bevan’s grave.

He notices they’re not the only ones out here. There’s what looks like couple standing at a grave not too far from the grave their headed to. He realizes with a jolt that it’s the ‘Beloved uncle and brother’ grave that they stole the Scotch from.

“Maybe we should have brought that bottle,” Louise says, which is exactly what he’s thinking. “I suppose there’s the possibility that they didn’t notice it was missing…”

“This is your fault,” he reminds her. “Come on, that grave’s on the way. We can stop to apologize.”

They continue onward, and David starts to think of what they’re going to say to this grieving couple. He could offer to buy them some drinks, but somehow that didn’t feel proper. Trying to come up with a better solution, he starts to notice more about the couple. The woman’s got her head down, undoubtedly crying, and she’s dressed entirely in black. The man, on the other hand, is staring out to the horizon, and he’s wearing… he’s wearing a blue RAF greatcoat…

The niggling sensation suddenly bursts forth, but this time it’s unlike it has ever felt before. It’s so agonizing that he gasps, partly out of pain, and partly because his world is thrown off kilter, because the man has seen him and is turning to him and it’s--

“Jack?”

“ _Ianto_?”

The tone is so tragic and pained, and he finds that his legs are carrying him forward and he has no control. He just keeps walking forward until he’s a foot away from Captain Jack Harkness, who hasn’t moved at all since he’s spotted him.

“Ianto?” Jack repeats. Jack shakily holds out a hand, reaching out to touch him, but the hand stops just a breath away from his face, like Jack is afraid that he isn’t really there.

“It’s me,” Ianto Jones says, and he’s crying now because he knows everything now, and it’s all right here, just within reach.

Tears cascade down onto Jack’s face as he finally places his trembling hand on Ianto’s cheek. As if the touch jolts him back into reality, Jack swiftly pulls Ianto to his chest, and sinks to his knees. Ianto follows him to the ground, stuck in his grasp, and they sob into one another.

“David, who are these people?” he hears from somewhere behind him.

“ _Ianto_ , who is _this_?” counters Gwen bloody Cooper.

He lets out a strangled laugh into Jack’s greatcoat, but he couldn’t respond even if he tries. All he can do is hold onto Jack just as tightly as Jack holds onto him.

After what seems like forever, Jack drags back from the embrace, tears still streaming down his cheeks. He searches Ianto’s face as his hands cup around it, as if to make sure Ianto’s entirely there. His gaze lingers for a moment, before he pulls Ianto in one of the wettest and most desperate kisses Ianto has ever had in his life. It’s also one of the longest, and it leaves then both gasping for air when they break. Jack, tactile by nature, presses his forehead into Ianto’s hard, and it kind of hurts, but Ianto doesn’t mind.

“I thought I lost you,” Jack essentially blubbers.

“Me, too.”

“I never… I never got to say it,” he says.

“It’s okay.”

Jack shakes his head, which feels slightly weird with their foreheads still squashed together so tightly. “No, it’s not.”

“I--”

“No,” Jack stops him. “Let me say it. Please.”

Ianto nods, which still feels weird.

“I love you, too, Ianto Jones.”

This time it’s Ianto who pulls Jack in for a rather tearful kiss.

It’s a while before they’re both steady enough to stand. When they do, Jack’s hand is firmly entangled in Ianto’s own, and there’s the complete possibility Jack won’t let go. Ianto doesn’t mind.

Gwen Cooper is a mixture of staring fondly at Jack and Ianto and glaring suspiciously at Louise. Louise looks downright confounded. Ianto smiles awkwardly at them both, because this… this is going to take some explaining.

“Right, then,” he says, turning to Louise first. “Louise, this is Gwen Cooper. She’s married to Rhys Williams. Remember him?”

“Wait, _I’m_ married to _Rhys_? _That’s_ how introduce me?”

Ianto ignores her. “And this is Captain Jack Harkness. He’s my--”

He cuts off, because he doesn’t exactly know what Jack is to him. Professionally, Jack’s not his boss anymore, so he can’t say that, and they never did talk about what they were to each other personally. At any rate, none of those terms are what Louise would know him as, anyway. So, he tries again.

“Jack is the man I was looking for,” he says.

“Oh my god,” Louise gasps, and her eyes go wide as she stares at Jack.

“Mind telling us who this lovely lady is?” Jack gives her a smile back, and Ianto can tell it’s meant to be disarming, but it doesn’t entirely reach due to the fact that he still has tears dripping off his chin. Louise blushes anyway, and Ianto finally has the satisfaction (after exactly two years and two months) of rolling his eyes at Jack. Damn, does it feel good.

“This is Louise Bevan. She’s my friend.”

“I helped him remember,” Louise says, a little too proudly. She then tilts her head curiously. “So, is your name really ‘Ianto,’ then?”

“What?” Gwen asks. She’s still eyeing Louise dubiously.

“Yeah,” Ianto says awkwardly. “See, I sort of forgot everything?”

Jack and Gwen gawp at him.

“It’s fine, I remember it all now,” he says hastily.

“You forgot _me_?” Jack teases, and Ianto’s glad that he sounds less heartbreaking. “I’ve never been called forgettable before in my life!”

Ianto shrugs. “Would’ve found you sooner if I didn’t.”

Jack reaches his free hand over to pull Ianto’s head over and presses a kiss to his temple.

“You never answered my question,” Louise says, and Jack draws back with a smirk.

“My name is Ianto Jones,” he says.

“Oh.”

“What’d you think he was called?” Gwen asks.

“I didn’t _think_ he was called anything,” Louise protests. “I just called him David Evans so that he wouldn’t get stuck in the hospital for all eternity on day one.”

Jack and Gwen both frown at that.

Ianto sighs, but it’s not at all out of weariness. “Look, why don’t we go somewhere else to talk about this?”

“No pubs,” Gwen says quickly, and Ianto watches as her eyes flicker to Jack, who has an inscrutable look.

Oh dear. 

There seems to be a lot they need to discuss

* * *

 

Jack is no longer miserable. In fact, this is probably the least miserable he’s been in a very long time. Lying on the bed of a hotel room in Cardiff with none other than Ianto Jones curled up beside him, he finds it hard to be anything but happy.

Ianto has explained everything that had happened to him in the past two years and two months (Jack has yet to ask about those other eight months), and Jack and Gwen have told him about the insider’s perspective of ‘Miracle Day,’ but there was still a lot of personal things they needed to discuss by themselves. Ianto listened patiently as Jack told him about the two odd years he spent in space, and he didn’t judge when Jack told him about how bad it got. If Jack didn’t already know he was in love, he would have known it then.

“So, through it all, you still found yourself making coffee in suits?” Jack laughs. He’s got his hand on Ianto’s cheek and he’s running his thumb over Ianto’s cheekbone. It feels so wonderful to do it again.

“I suppose you can’t take the ‘me’ away from me when you take the me away from me,” Ianto says, cocking an eyebrow, and Jack laughs again.

“I don’t know how I did it without you,” he says, and for once, he can say it with a smile, because he won’t ever have to know what that’s like again, if what Ianto says is true. He wrinkles his nose. “Still don’t see you as a ‘David,” though.”

“That’s what I said,” Ianto says with a mock sigh. “I told her I thought I was more of a Gareth.”

“Oh, definitely.”

There’s a peaceful stillness that follows, and Jack finds himself tracing the lines of Ianto’s face. Oh, how he’s missed that face.

“Do you think I’m actually in that grave?” he asks. “They buried me and all. I mean, I did show up eight months later, but I don’t know if that means I popped up out of the grave or if it just gave me a new body.”

“If what gave you a new body?”

And Ianto tells all about him about the Time Vortex.

There’s a stunned silence that follows before Jack whistles. “Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“Rose Tyler?”

“The Doctor may have taken the Vortex out of her, but he didn’t take her out of the Vortex.”

Jack blinks. “Wow. Deep.”

A tiny smirk begins to form on Ianto’s face and Jack looks at him inquisitively.

“This is usually when you make an ostentatious comment about things that could also go deep.”

Jack breaks into a grin. “You are absolutely wonderful, Ianto Jones.”

“I try my best.”

Still smiling, Jack plants a kiss on Ianto’s forehead. “I suppose it all depends.”

“Depends?”

“What clothes were you wearing when you reappeared?” he asks. “If you were in the clothes you wore to your funeral, then I’d say that it’s the same body. If you showed up naked, well…”

“I was wearing the suit I wore to the Thames House,” Ianto says quietly, and the mood is killed instantly.

“Oh.” Jack moves closer to him and stares him directly in the eye. “I hope you burned that suit.”

“I didn’t know what it meant,” Ianto murmurs. He then gives a small smile. “You can help me burn it, if you’d like.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“I suppose we’ll never know then,” Ianto muses. “If this is _my_ body, or a new one.”

“We could always dig up your grave,” Jack proposes. “No one can stop you; it’s your grave.”

“Not sure that’s how that works.” Ianto’s grin widens. “Speaking of my own grave...”

“What?”

“I may have actually stood over my own grave and mourned. I didn’t know it at the time. I also definitely drank that tribute you left to me. It was good Scotch.”

Jack gapes at him. “So that’s where that went!”

“Louise pinched it. It’s not technically stealing if it was left for you, right?”

Jack snorts.

“Also--‘beloved uncle and brother?’ Not ‘I saved the fucking world, you're welcome?’”

“Your sister chose it,” Jack says.

It is Ianto’s turn to say, “Oh.”

“You know you can’t see her again, right?” Jack says softly.

“I know.” Ianto sighs. “I can’t exactly explain to her why I’m back, much less why I won’t die. And I can’t come back to just fake my death in ten years.”

Jack wraps his arms around Ianto. “I’m sorry.”

“I’d say it’s fine, but it’s really not, is it? I’m going to miss her.”

“What do you want to do?” Jack asks after a pause. “Do you want to stay on Earth, or what?”

Ianto appears to contemplate this, and then he grins as he props himself up on his forearm.

“Well…”

* * *

 

Louise Bevan is only slightly startled by the blue and white beams that materialize in her living room.

“I knew it was like Star Trek,” she mutters darkly as the figures of Ianto Jones and Captain Jack Harkness appear.

“This is different,” Ianto says, dislodging his arm from Jack’s. “This is actual teleportation. That was… appearing from the Vortex.”

“I have no idea what that is,” Louise grumbles.

“You’re in a sour mood,” Ianto says.

“I haven’t had your coffee in two years,” she says, “ _of course_ I’m in a bad mood.”

“I know firsthand how awful that can be,” Jack remarks.

She regards the captain carefully. She still hasn’t forgiven him from taking her best friend away and to space.

Jack seems to realize this. “Hey, I brought him back!”

Ianto just rolls his eyes and makes his way to the kitchen. “I’ll just make some coffee, then, shall I?”

“I love you,” both Jack and Louise sigh. They glare at each other.

Minutes later, they all have coffee in their hands and are sitting silently in the living room.

“This is awkward,” Jack says suddenly.

“You promised you’d tell me everything when you came back,” Louise reminds Ianto, ignoring Jack.

Ianto finishes off a sip of coffee. “So I did. What do you want to know first?”

“Well, how it all happened, for a start.”

Jack and Ianto share a look.

“It all starts with your brother’s death, actually,” Jack says.

Her mouth drops. “You’re joking.”

“For once in my very long life, I’m not,” Jack promises.

“You know how you said David worked as a real estate agent?” Ianto asks.

“Yeah, because he _did_.”

“He didn’t. He actually worked for the government.”

“Are you saying my brother lied to me?” she asks.

“He may have had to,” Jack says calmly.

“We’re not here to argue about what your brother did and didn’t tell you,” Ianto says as she tries to set the record straight. “Just… believe us.”

She scowls but relents anyway. “Fine.”

“Your brother died the same way I did. An alien plague released into Thames House. It killed dozens and dozens of people.”

“How did you escape, then?” she asks.

“I didn’t,” he says. “What happened to me was… well, I was sucked into something called the Time Vortex.”

“And that is?”

“A dimensional plane where time and space meet,” he clarifies. “I was essentially saved by Time itself.”

She holds her breath, considering this, and then exhales. “Still not the weirdest thing you’ve said to me.”

“You believe him right off the bat?” Jack asks, evidently amazed by this.

She ignores him and folds her arms. “Can you just tell me one thing? Why you? I don’t mean to be rude, cause I’m glad it was you, but… just…”

Ianto and Jack exchange a second look.

“Why me and not David?” Ianto finishes for her.

“Yeah.”

“Time apparently has a crush on him,” Jack says. “I’m a bit jealous.”

Louise looks to Ianto for an actual answer, but he just shrugs.

“That’s one way to put it, but I guess,” he says. “I’ve never really understood it once I got out of the Vortex.”

“Okay. Then why did you forget?”

“Absorbing the Vortex took a lot out of me. It’s too powerful for humans. The only other person I’ve heard to do so--” he glances a Jack, who has a melancholic expression on his face “--had to have the Vortex taken out of her, so she wouldn’t die. There was no one to take it out of me, and I couldn’t die, so it just… jumbled everything up a bit when it spit me out.”

“Time Vortex induced amnesia,” is how Jack sums it up to her.

“Exactly.”

“Alright,” Louise says, because there’s not much else to say to that. “How old are you? Both of you.”

“Lost count at two thousand,” Jack says.

Ianto smirks. “Thirty.”

“Only a year off, then,” she says with a nod.

“Anything else?” Ianto asks.

There’s only one question she has left. “Are you staying? On Earth?”

Ianto and Jack smile.

“For a while,” Ianto says.

“Good. You can help me clean _your_ stuff out of my house.”

“You haven’t done that in two years?”

“We can’t all be as perfect as you, Ianto Jones.”

Jack throws back his head and laughs.

* * *

 

There is a squeal that comes from the other side of the door, and Ianto’s not sure if it comes from Gwen or Anwen. The door swings open to reveal it’s both.

“I thought you were coming tomorrow!” Gwen cries, ushering them in as Anwen stares up at them.

“Hello, little one. Remember me? Uncle Jack!” Jack says, crouching down beside Anwen. “I haven’t seen you since you were--” he makes an approximation with his hands “--this big!”

“I’m bigger now!” she squeaks in her little toddler voice.

“And how old are you?” Jack asks.

Anwen holds up a few fingers on her hand, and Gwen rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“You’re not three, you’re four!” Gwen says. “We’ve been over this already!”

“Oh, come one, Gwen,” Jack chuckles as he stands. “She’s young!”

“Tell me about it,” Gwen growls lightly under her breath.

“That them, then?” Rhys’s voice calls from somewhere in the house.

“Hello, Rhys!” Ianto shouts back to the voice, because if _he_ doesn’t give the man a proper greeting, no one will.

“Who are you?” Anwen asks, peeping up at him with doe eyes that are an awful lot like Gwen’s own.

“I’m Ianto Jones,” he tells her.

“Oh,” she says, and then returns to Jack.

“Don’t mind her,” Gwen says.

“It’s okay, I’m used to it,” Ianto laughs.

“So. How’s space?” she asks as they watch Jack and Anwen interact in the way that only children like those two can.

“Incredible,” Ianto says, because it is. It’s absolutely _staggering_ how wonderful it is out there.

“And you’re leaving it so soon?” she asks.

“Well, we’ve got an eternity to see it,” he tells her. “But you, Anwen, Rhys, and Louise… we’ve only got a limited amount of time to see you. And besides, I think Jack actually started to miss this place.”

“How is Louise?”

“She’s doing alright. A bit lonely, but…”

“That’s going to change,” Gwen finishes.

“Yeah.”

“Anwen says you don’t let her eat candy all of the time,” Jack calls abruptly. “What’s this about?”

“Oh, you do _not_ get to come in and play the fun uncles and undermine my hard work,” Gwen says dangerously. “That clear, Jack Harkness?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack says. He stands to attention and gives her a mock solute but follows it with a not-so-secretly wink to a giggling Anwen.

Ianto sighs. He can’t tell if it’s out of exasperation or fondness.

“Hello, Ianto,” Rhys says, finally making his appearance. He’s wearing an apron and smells faintly of onions. “How was the trip?”

“Wonderful,” Ianto says as he reaches out to clasp Rhys’s hand in a shake.

“I hope you told all aliens to stay away from Earth,” Rhys says jokingly. “Don’t have anyone to stop them now.”

Jack stands and gives Ianto a look.

“Actually…”

“No,” Gwen gasps, looking between the two.

“We’re Captain Jack Harkness and Ianto Jones,” Ianto says with a smile. “Did you expect us to do anything else?”

She continues her probing look, and then sighs. “No, I suppose not.”

Rhys leads then all to the dining room, where dinner is sitting on the table. They sit down for a meal of Rhys’s lasagna and Gwen offers them wine. Jack passes on the it, citing he hasn’t had a drop of alcohol in two years. Ianto smiles, and discreetly finds Jack’s hand under the table. He doesn’t let go for the majority of dinner.

That night, in privacy of the bed in the guest bedroom and the dead of night, Jack smirks slyly at Ianto.

“What?” asks Ianto.

“Louise gave me your lists,” Jack says.

“Oh dear.”

“‘Accident-prone idiot?’” Jack quotes.

“In my defense… you kind of are.”

“I’m wounded,” Jack laughs. He then softens and surveys Ianto. “I’m glad you’re you, you know that, right?”

Ianto smiles and nods.

He does. And he’s glad to be him, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Few logistical things:  
> 1: I can honestly say that I don't know how this much alcohol got into the story, sorry. It started with Jack, and then it bled to Ianto and Louise and by the time I noticed, I was nearly finished and I couldn't change it. I guess my explanation is 'they're all broken and have crap coping mechanisms.' Anyway, sorry about the shit ton of alcohol, guys  
> 2: I never watched Miracle Day (I know, shame on me) but I did work hard to keep that part as accurate as possible.  
> 3: Also I did not edit this. I hate editing my own work. Someday I might edit, but not today.
> 
> And now onto you. Yes, you! Thank you for reading! You're absolutely wonderful! I hope you have a great day!


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